


Diverted

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Come From Away - Sankoff & Hein, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, English Greg living in the USA, Falling In Love, Gander (Come From Away), Greg Lestrade Being Patient, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mycroft plays piano, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Greg, Sharing a Room, Stranded, Strangers to Lovers, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2020-09-27 04:43:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 103,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg's on a plane, wishing he'd paid for an ungrade, worried about what he's going to find when he finally arrives back home in Dallas. When mechanical failure sends their plane into an emergency landing at someplace called Gander on the eastern tip of Canada, he's anxious - until he meets Mycroft, who ticks boxes he didn't even know he had. When it seems they might be in Gander for more than a few hours, Greg idly hopes he might run into Mycroft again, but fate has other ideas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it was always going to happen wasn't it? My long term love fusing with my current lust - and so we have a Mystrade/Come From Away crossover. We'll have to see where we end up, but suffice it to say if you've seen Come From Away there'll be familiar characters, situations and lines, and if you haven't...WHY NOT?!?!...ahem, I mean, you'll follow along fine.

Greg rolled his shoulders, wishing he’d paid for the upgrade, knowing why he didn’t. The seats in economy weren’t really designed for his broad shoulders, and even though the flight wasn’t full, it was uncomfortable enough to keep him from really relaxing. Having a spare seat beside him was a blessing, but even so, he was grateful the flight was only eight hours or so.

As though his thoughts had affected the flight path, the plane suddenly banked hard to the right. Greg gripped the arm rest instinctively, glancing around. Other passengers had noticed – it was hardly a normal manoeuvre – and the chatter in the cabin was nervous. The flight attendants had smiles pasted on their face, but Greg didn’t need his police training to recognise nervousness when he saw it. He watched as the cabin emptied of staff and flexed his fingers, a thread of anxiety taking hold.

_Don’t think about it,_ he told himself. _The flight will take as long as it takes, and you’ll be back in Dallas soon. Adrienne is in good hands._

It felt like an eternity before a flight attendant appeared again, gripping the handset and greeting the passengers over the intercom.

“Good morning, passengers. As most of you noticed we have had to make an alteration to our flight path today. A serious mechanical failure has occurred and the pilot has made a decision in the interests of all our safety to land at the closest airport.” She paused, exchanging a glance with her co-worker.

Greg’s stomach clenched. That was not good.

“I am sorry to inform you that we will not be landing in Dallas today. Our closest airport is Gander, Newfoundland. We anticipate landing in approximately two hours. At this stage,” she continued, over the beginnings of disappointed and angry muttering, “the pilot is unsure how long we will be in Canada. He is conferring with technical crew in Newfoundland. Please be assured we will have you on your way as soon as possible. Thank you for flying with British Airways.”

Greg groaned, pressing his head back into the seat. This was the last thing he needed. An unscheduled stop in the middle of nowhere? With every minute he was flying further away from Dallas, from Adrienne. How was he supposed to support her from here? He ground his teeth in frustration. Deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth.

“Hot towel?” the flight attendant asked tentatively.

“No thanks,” Greg said, working hard to be polite. This was hardly her fault. “Thanks for letting us know what’s going on.”

For a minute Greg thought she might cry. “Of course, sir. Our apologies for the inconvenience.”

“Not your fault,” Greg said. “I bet you’ve got things to do, too.”

“My kids are in Dallas,” she said with a wobbly smile. “Haven’t seen them in a week.”

“I’m sure we’ll be back on our way soon,” Greg said. She smiled again and kept moving, offering hot towels to the row behind him.

How had Greg ended up consoling her, instead of the other way around? He shook his head at himself. Too soft, people would call him, but she was as human as any of them. This wasn’t on her plan for the day either, he’d bet. Either way, it had helped him stay calm for a few moments, and he was able to keep his concern from spiralling out of control. Adrienne was in the best place she could be, and Greg wasn’t going to be offering practical help; the best he could do right now was try to stay calm and not make this whole thing harder for everyone else. Having that focus made it a little easier, but he was still edgy.

When they finally landed in Gander, Greg was just about jumping out of his skin. He wanted to get out of here, to call the hospital and see how Adrienne was doing. The landing was a little hair raising; crosswinds were strong, not that Greg had a lot of experience to compare. When the flight attendants were gripping their seatbelts and looking at each other like that, though, he reckoned there was some just cause to be worried.

Finally, they were down, taxi-ing to wherever they were going. Greg was drumming his fingers on his seat, wincing at the slight rocking of the plane as the wind gusted. He wondered idly how strong it must be to affect such a huge vehicle. Pretty bloody strong, he thought.

“Hello again,” came the flight attendant over the intercom, and if Greg thought she looked stressed earlier, this was another level. She opened her mouth to speak again, but instead handed the handset over to her colleague, disappearing into the galley with one hand over her mouth.

_Shit_.

“Hi,” the other flight attendant said. “My name’s Dane, I’m the cabin crew team leader. As you probably felt, it was a bit of a rough landing. That’s partly due to our mechanical issue and partly due to the crosswinds we’re experiencing here in Gander. Unfortunately,” there was an audible groan at this word, “due to the high winds we’ve had to park in a specific part of the airfield for safety reasons. Additionally, the high winds mean it’s not safe for the mobile stairway to come out to us.”

Greg was figuring out what Dane was trying to say when a voice from the back asked, “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” Dane said with a customer service smile, “that we are unable to exit the plane at this stage.”

“We’re stuck in here?” the voice asked in disbelief.

“I’m afraid so,” Dane replied.

“For how long?” the voice asked, and there was an edge Greg recognised, hovering there, threatening danger without actually saying anything.

_Shit._

“We don’t know,” Dane replied. “Until the wind dies down enough to make it safe for the stairway to come out to us. It’s quite top heavy and they have been known to blow over in these conditions.”

There was a moment of silence before the uproar began. Dane’s smile faltered, and he tried to address the crowd to no avail. With a sigh, Greg released his seatbelt, standing up and approaching the flight attendant.

“I’m a police officer,” he said, bending to speak into his ear. “May I?”

Dane ceded the handset immediately, disappearing after his colleague into the galley.

Greg turned, pressed the button to broadcast and whistled between his teeth right into the receiver.

The shrill sound echoed through the plane and everybody froze.

“Right,” Greg said as pleasantly as possible. “My name’s Detective Inspector Lestrade. Greg, if you’re feeling like being a decent human being.” He paused. “As far as I can see, this is nobody’s fault. It’s a rubbish situation. Nobody planned on visiting Canada on their way to Dallas, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Abusing the staff here isn’t going to get us going any quicker.” He glowered at two men in the back who had stood up as they shouted earlier. “However long we have to be here, it’s going to be a whole lot more pleasant if we remember that we’re all stuck here, including the crew. Now, I’ll have no problem finding a space to confine any troublemakers, and I’m fairly sure the crew can leave you here if you’re deemed a risk to the rest of us when we finally get going again.”

The cabin was dead quiet as Greg played what he hoped was a good enough bluff to keep the peace. “Excellent. Thank you.”

He hung up the handset and returned to his seat, feeling the eyes of the cabin on him. Slowly the silence lifted, whispered conversations breaking out as people resigned themselves to the wait, however long that would be.

Dropping his head back, Greg closed his eyes. This was not his plan. Not even close, and now he was stuck here in Canada.

“Mister Lestrade?” A voice sounded beside him.

“Yeah,” Greg said. With a great effort, he opened his eyes and straightened his head. Dane the flight attendant was kneeling next to his seat.

“Thank you,” Dane said. “For what you said.”

“People are stressed,” Greg replied. “It’s gonna happen. Let me know if I need to follow through on that threat.”

“I will,” Dane replied. He hesitated. “Actually, I wanted to ask if you wanted to come and sit in first class while we wait? There’re some spare seats and you’d have a bit more room.”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary,” Greg started, but Dean wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Please,” he said. He leaned in, flicking a glance at the man behind Greg. “We could be here for quite a while.”

Greg winced at the stress in his voice, but realised the man was trying to help him the way Greg had helped him. “Sure,” Greg said finally. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

He grabbed his jacket from the overhead compartment and his satchel from under the seat in front, following Dane up the narrow aisle to first class. He could feel the eyes of the other passengers on him. Where there were three columns of three seats in economy, it was 1-2-1 up here. Greg felt himself relax a little at the sight of the extra width. God, his shoulders were thanking him already.

“Take any seat you like,” Dane told him.

“Thanks,” Greg said. “Come and get me if anyone gets too snarky, alright?”

“We will,” Dane replied.

Greg turned to look at the options. There were several spare seats, all of them aisle seats which was pretty great, but Greg didn’t care where he was. He just wanted to sit, relax as much as he could and hopefully sleep away some of the wait until they could disembark.

“Hi,” he said, dropping into a seat on the left hand side. The guy sitting by the window glanced at him, offering a tight smile. Jeez, he’d chosen well. A quick sweep up and down and his eyes registered long _long_ legs, a beautifully cut suit and grey eyes he could absolutely lose himself in. Just his luck that the guy looked annoyed; no point flirting with an irritated American.

“Good morning.”

“Greg Lestrade,” Greg offered. “Hope you don’t mind me crashing your party up here.”

“Of course not,” he replied. Christ, he sounded posh, Greg thought. And British. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Another Brit, then?” Greg said, internally wincing at the obvious remark. “What’s taking you to Dallas, then?”

“I am travelling for work,” Mycroft replied. He folded his hands and shifted, and for a second Greg thought he might be sending a subtle signal to stop talking to him. Instead, he raised his hand in a strange gesture. “My apologies,” he said, seeing Greg’s questioning look. “My security detail is sitting in the row behind us, and had I not confirmed you are not a security threat they would have…taken steps.”

“Really,” Greg said. Geez. “Well, I’m with Scotland Yard, if that makes a difference.”

“May I enquire as to your role?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m a D.I. Homicide division,” Greg said. Loathed as he was to admit it, he kind of hoped Mycroft was a little impressed. He rarely pulled rank unless it was necessary, and he felt his cheeks heat as though he’d been boasting.

“I work for the Government,” Mycroft said. “A minor role, but satisfying.”

Greg nodded, biting back a grin. “Uh-huh.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft looked surprised at his scepticism.

“You’re travelling internationally in first class with,” Greg checked, “two security staff for work, and you’re telling me you have a ‘minor role’.”

Mycroft met his eyes steadily, and Greg had the most peculiar sensation, as though he was being assessed. “Indeed, that is what I’m telling you,” he murmured. A fizz of awareness circled the base of his spine before dissipating. This guy could be interesting.

“Fair enough,” Greg said, though from Mycroft’s sharp look, he knew Greg didn’t buy it. “In that case, why don’t you tell me everything you know about Newfoundland.” Mycroft looked puzzled. “If I ask you about your job…well, unpleasant things might happen,” he said, grinning. “And I don’t know anything about Newfoundland.”

“Neither do I,” Mycroft said, and the admission seemed to cause him some level of pain. “And without a secure internet connection I am unable to find out anything.”

“Oh yeah,” Greg muttered. He pulled out his own phone, then made a face when he realised there wasn’t any internet connection, secure or otherwise. “Oh well, I guess it’ll all be a bit of an adventure then.”

“Are you travelling for business?” Mycroft asked.

Greg felt the smile freeze on his face. Guilt flooded through him. “Er, family,” he said shortly. How could he have forgotten? Sitting here flirting with the gorgeous redhead beside him instead of thinking about Adrienne.

“Are you visiting long?” Mycroft asked politely.

Greg tried to pull himself together enough to answer. “Um, don’t know yet. It was kind of a last minute thing. Diverting to Canada wasn’t really part of the deal.”

“No, I assume there are few with the leisure to wait in Canada for an indeterminate amount of time,” Mycroft replied.

“Things got a bit heated up the back already,” Greg said. “Don’t know if you heard but there could be a few at the back that could be trouble if we’re here for long.”

“On a flight this big, I’m not surprised,” Mycroft replied. He raised one eyebrow. “Might I assume you reminded them of their civic duty to be patient?”

“I might have,” Greg replied, feeling a smile spread across his face despite himself. There was nothing he could do about getting to Dallas faster, and stressing about it wouldn’t help. The best he could do was get in contact with Adrienne as soon as possible. It was likely she’d have someone there with her. It didn’t stop Greg wanting to be there, but it did ease his guilt a little. She wouldn’t be on her own.

“If you’ll forgive the question, you seem tense,” Mycroft asked carefully.

Greg glanced sharply across, unaware he’d been broadcasting his discomfort so clearly.

“My-” he took a deep breath. “There was an accident. I’m meant to be in Dallas. Just headed back to London to give evidence in a hearing, and while I was there Adrienne…” he trailed off. With a deep breath, hands rubbing on his jeans, Greg added, “She’s okay, I think. But I should be there.”

“My condolences,” Mycroft said. “When we disembark I’m sure you’ll be able to make a phone call.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I’m not exactly next-of-kin. Don’t know if they’ll even tell me how she is.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment. “If there is anything I can do,” he said carefully. “I may be able to help circumvent some of the more…arbitrary hospital policies.”

“Really?” Greg said. “That would be…thanks. I mean, I’ll see how it goes. But…yeah.”

A flight attendant came past, offering snacks, and Greg happily accepted a bottle of water and a packet of crisps.

“Nothing for me, thank you,” Mycroft murmured.

“I can’t even tell you what time it is,” Greg said. “Probably shouldn’t be eating this right now but,” he shrugged. “Could be any time. Do you know?”

“I asked earlier,” Mycroft said. “Newfoundland has its own time zone. They are two and a half hours ahead of Dallas, if that helps.”

“Two and a half hours,” Greg repeated. “Okay. And what time would that make it now?”

“I believe it is approximately ten A.M.,” Mycroft said. “On Tuesday.”

“Okay,” Greg said. He put down his crisps and took off his watch, wanting to make sure it was right before he forgot what Mycroft had said. “Thanks.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied.

Greg finished his crisps, wiping his fingers on the tiny towelette provided. He sighed, enjoying the ability to rest his shoulders back. “Think I’ll doze for a bit. Didn’t sleep much back there.”

“I’m not surprised,” Mycroft said.

Greg leaned back, crossing his arms and closing his eyes, but Mycroft cleared his throat.

“You realise your seat reclines?” Mycroft asked.

“It does?” Greg repeated.

“If you’ll allow me,” Mycroft said, leaning over the aisle and pointing to a button. “You should stand up.”

Greg did, and to his amazement when Mycroft pressed the button, the seat slid forward and down, forming a flat bed.

“Jesus,” he said. “This’d be what you’re paying for up here.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. He reached over, opening a drawer to reveal earplugs, an eyemask and an assortment of toiletries. “You’ll find a pillow and blanket in the cupboard below,” he said.

“Thanks,” Greg said. “Good thing I’ve got you here to show me how all this works.” He got himself settled, then grinned at Mycroft. “Wake me if we’re getting off this thing, will you?”

“I will,” Mycroft replied.

Greg pulled his sleeping mask over his eyes and settled down. The gentle rocking as the wind buffeted the plane helped calm him.

He was asleep in minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

It could have been an hour or a day later when Greg woke to the sound of a trolley rattling past his head. Groaning quietly, he struggled to sit up, blinking hard to wake his eyes. He was still on the plane, still in first class. Daylight through the windows, so he hadn’t slept too long. Glancing at his watch, he remembered he had actually set it earlier when he was talking to Mycroft.

2.11pm. Roughly, as he hadn’t set his watch too precisely earlier.

“Good afternoon,” one of the crew said when they saw he was awake. “Might I offer you a meal?”

“Which meal?” Greg asked, stifling a yawn.

“We’ve lost track,” the young man admitted. “We’re calling this one lunch, though, as it was what we would have served on the way to Dallas.”

“Go on, then,” Greg said. “Hang on, let me just…” He fumbled for the seat before giving up. “Look, if I head for the bathroom maybe you could figure this out for me?”

“Of course,” the flight attendant said.

Greg headed forward to the toilet showing a vacant sign. It was marginally larger than the economy ones, but he still bumped his elbows as he washed his hands and splashed water on his face. He could do with a shave, but there was no way he’d be trying that in this tiny space. He’d have to wait until they were out of here and he had access to a proper bathroom.

When he returned, his seat had been returned to its upright position and his meal was set out. It was a hell of a lot nicer than he’d ever seen on an airplane, that was for sure.

“I suggested you might appreciate the beef option,” Mycroft’s voice came from his right.

“Yeah, thanks,” Greg said. He grinned. “What did you go for?”

“I prefer the vegetarian,” Mycroft replied. “I don’t eat heavily when I travel.”

“You travel a lot?” Greg asked. His meal was some kind of beef pie arrangement, and where it could have been tasteless or chalky, the meat was tender and the gravy fragrant.

“On occasion,” Mycroft allowed.

“But often enough to have a preference when you order your meals,” Greg said.

“Yes,” Mycroft allowed. “Not always for work.”

“Do you have family overseas?” Greg asked. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was and it was a balance between talking to Mycroft and eating.

“No,” Mycroft said. “But I prefer to spend my holiday time abroad.”

Greg looked at him, chewing and swallowing before pointing with one finger. “I’m gonna say Italy and France. Parts of Spain, Greece, Germany. Anywhere without too much sun, with plenty of old buildings, art, culture. I’ll bet money you speak at least half a dozen languages, too.”

As he waited for Mycroft to reply, Greg noted the lack of movement. If the wind wasn’t pushing the plane around so much, maybe they might be getting off here soon. He grinned as Mycroft’s expression changed. He was at first tolerant, as though Greg’s guess couldn’t possibly be close to the truth, but as Greg continued to speak, his face showed the astonishment that told Greg he’d been right on the money.

“Seven,” Mycroft said. “If you include English.”

“Which I do,” Greg said. “Otherwise I’d have a measly two.”

“You speak multiple languages?” Mycroft asked.

“No need to be surprised,” Greg said, the flirt in him coming to the fore as he gently teased Mycroft. “Papa was French, and he only ever spoke French to us. Hated it at the time, now I’m glad he did. And I have a cousin I was close to, she’s deaf. So we all learned BSL too.” He shrugged. “Don’t use it as much now, she lives in Birmingham and we mostly text or email. But I reckon I’d understand if someone started signing at me.”

Mycroft nodded, and it was clear he was impressed. “I have always had an ear for languages,” he said. “I find it challenging, in a positive manner. A constructive pass time, and the opportunity to immerse myself in the language while visiting areas of cultural and historical significance is pleasing.”

Greg nodded. “It’s always good when things come together,” he said. “I run, or I used to, and I’d listen to podcasts while I did.” He grinned. “I was very strict with myself. Couldn’t listen to the new episode unless I was running, which made me want to run more.”

“Positive reinforcement,” Mycroft murmured. “And did you find yourself associating the podcast with more positive mood?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “A win all around, really.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said, smiling briefly at the flight attendant as he cleared their meals.

“Everything alright down the back?” Greg asked.

“I believe so,” their flight attendant said. “My name’s Sam, and I’m mainly up here in first class. I can ask Dane if you’d like to know?”

“I can find him,” Greg said. “Probably should stretch my legs, too.”

“Of course,” Sam said.

Greg waited until he’d gone before standing and stretching. “I’ll just wander down, see how everyone’s going,” he said.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied.

Greg parted the curtain into the galley carefully. “Alright?” he asked. It was the female flight attendant, the one from whom Dane had taken the receiver earlier. She looked upset, he thought. “Any trouble down this end?”

“Nothing really,” she said. When he raised an eyebrow, she said, “Dane’s been doing the back end. Some of the guys down there aren’t too happy that we’re not serving alcohol.”

Greg swore under his breath. Of course they weren’t serving _alcohol._ Jesus, he shouldn’t still be surprised by people, not after all these years. “And how’s Dane going?”

“Alright,” she said. “I think.”

“And is there any word on what’s going on?” Greg asked. “The wind seems to be less gusty.”

“It is,” she said (why hadn’t he asked her name? Too late now). “I think they have to have half an hour without redline gusts before they’ll come out. The pilots are waiting for the ground crew to make the call.”

Greg nodded. At least there was some kind of progress. “And the mechanical issues?”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, but Dane came in.

“Sarah, do we have any more bottles of water here?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, pointing to a bottom cabinet.

“Alright?” Greg asked him.

“Working hard,” Dane said with a wry grin. “But alright. Hoping to get off this plane soon, though.”

“I hear that,” Greg replied. He flashed another grin before disappearing back towards economy, arms full of bottles of water.

“We’re very isolated here,” Sarah said, picking up their conversation. “And they probably don’t have the parts for this plane. It’s not a very common model, and from what I heard the pilots say, they need specialist equipment to fix what they think’s wrong anyway.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered. “That’s a lot of reasons why we might be here for a few days.”

“And that’s assuming the weather lets another flight in,” she said. “Sorry.”

“No, I did ask,” Greg said. “And I appreciate the real answer.”

“Nice not to have to lie,” Sarah said with a teary smile. “I’ll let you know when we hear anything.”

“Thanks,” Greg said. He debated going down into the back of the plane, but it seemed Dane had things in hand. No need to rock the boat. Or the plane, as it were. Instead he returned to his seat, amused to see Mycroft sitting upright, his eyes closed, hands folded on his lap. Greg looked at him for a long moment, taking the chance to let his attention linger.

In repose, his sharp eyes weren’t visible, but Greg remembered how they’d assessed him, the amusement that had softened them once their conversation had flowed more easily. The slight frown was smoothed out, and with time to look, Greg could see the pale freckles sprinkled across his cheeks. They confirmed his suspicion that the reddish tinge was just a hint at a more naturally vibrant hue. Pale skin, freckles, power and a dry sense of humour. He couldn’t have asked for a better combination, Greg thought wryly, assuming he had any chance at all with this guy. Perhaps he’d ask for a little less power next time, he told himself jokingly. Make it less likely he’d get himself dropped into the ocean.

“Was there something, Gregory?”

Greg blushed immediately. “Sorry,” he said. “Wondered if you know, these seats recline.”

Mycroft opened his eyes and turned his head to Greg. “Really,” he replied, a thread of amusement beneath his reply.

“Yeah, I can show you if you like,” Greg teased. “Hate you to get a crick in your neck.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Mycroft replied. “I’ll assume things are calm at the other end?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “I think the crew team leaders’ got things pretty well in hand.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft replied.

“And,” Greg added, leaning in, conscious of the other passengers around them, “apparently they’re waiting on the ground crew to agree to come out with the stairs. Could be soon.”

Mycroft nodded. “Excellent,” he said. “Thank you.”

Greg glanced around, feeling like he was passing inside information. “There’s more. It sounds like they might have to fly in equipment to fix the plane, and that might not happen until the weather settles down.”

A slow nod, and Mycroft looked thoughtful. “Thank you,” he said again.

“So what do you usually do on a long flight?” Greg asked. “Surely you don’t just look out the window the whole time.”

“I work,” Mycroft said simply. “The poor weather has not afforded me the opportunity, however. I generally provide a secure connection when needed, and at this stage I can go no further without access to,” he glanced at Greg, his lip twitching, “certain resources.”

“Un-huh,” Greg replied, his own mouth twitching at the implication. “Well, what else would you do?” He gestured to the back of the seats. “There’re hundreds of movies and TV shows there. Don’t tell me there’s nothing there that would take your fancy.”

“I don’t generally indulge in mainstream media,” Mycroft said.

Greg smirked, feeling his eyebrow rise. “Really,” he said. His tone felt indulgent, was that how it sounded to Mycroft too?

“What is your entertainment of choice?” Mycroft replied, slightly defensive and slightly challenging.

Greg loved it.

“I’m all in to watch the movies I haven’t seen,” he said. “I usually browse a bit, see what’s there, then make a plan. Watch something, have a walk around, watch something else. Try not to fall asleep or my neck won’t be right for days.”

“And what did you chose for this flight?” Mycroft asked.

“Nothing too interesting,” Greg said. Nothing had really captured his attention, focused as he was on Adrienne and what might be happening in Dallas. He’d kicked around restlessly, watching the starts of movies and sections of TV shows he was already familiar with. He tried to pick something. “Um, I watched the start of Broadchurch.”

“I can’t say I’m familiar with it,” Mycroft said.

Greg winced. “No judgement,” he said, “but it’s a miniseries about a homicide detective working a case in a small town.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow.

“I know,” Greg groaned. “It was recommended to me. It was great, but I wasn’t really in the headspace.”

“I can understand why,” Mycroft said.

Greg smiled a little. There was a whole lot more to that, but this was not the place to have that particular discussion. “I’m not sure I’ll finish it,” he admitted. “I’d rather something I can escape into, you know? Something completely silly or just…not like life.”

“Yes,” Mycroft mused. “I know what you mean.”

“Well if you don’t ‘indulge in mainstream media’,” Greg asked with a slightly forced grin, “what do you do for entertainment? There must be something you like to watch or listen to.”

“I prefer classical music,” Mycroft admitted. “Of the quieter variety.”

“Any composers in particular?” Greg asked. “Don’t expect me to know them, though.”

Mycroft suppressed a smile. “I find Ludovico Einaudi quite relaxing,” he said. “My parents were insistent we have a wide variety of classical music influences, so I am familiar with a number of composers, though my enjoyment varies.”

“We?” Greg asked, jumping on the pronoun. “Brothers? Sisters?”

“A brother,” Mycroft replied. “We were disappointing musically, though Sherlock still plays his violin, at least.” He took the hint of Greg’s raised eyebrows and added, “I learned piano, and later cello to accompany my brother. He is far more innately musical than I.”

“I’d bet money you’re still pretty good,” Greg said, a little more warmly than was strictly necessary. “I played guitar for a while, but that was more about impressing other people than any desire to play necessarily.”

“I do have a piano,” Mycroft admitted. “It is not played as often as it deserves to be.”

Greg nodded. He knew that feeling.

Before they could continue, the flight attendant made an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, the wind has stabilised enough for the ground crew to bring the stairs over, so we will be disembarking shortly. Please take all your personal belongings. Checked luggage will be unloaded shortly. Accommodation will be addressed when we are in the terminal. Thank you.”

“Well,” Greg said. “That’s good news, at least.” He hoped he’d be able to get to a phone now, persuade someone at the hospital to tell him what was happening with Adrienne.

“So far,” Mycroft allowed.

“Not really an optimist, are you?” Greg said, grinning. He stood, stretching, and picked up his jacket and satchel.

“Realist,” Mycroft agreed, “though the term ‘alarmist’ has been applied to me, not unfairly.”

Greg grinned. Mycroft’s dry humour was right up his alley. He hoped they’d cross paths again while they were stuck here in town. It would give him someone to flirt with, if nothing else, and keep his mind off whatever was going on in Dallas.

+++

Greg blinked. “Roommates?” he asked, staring at the room key in his hand.

Mycroft winced. “The hotels only have so many rooms,” he explained. “And given the security considerations…”

Greg flashed a smile, more to reassure Mycroft than anything else. “No, it’s fine,” he said.

“The other alternative proposed was for you and I to each share with one of the security team,” Mycroft said. He flicked a glance their way and leaned closer. “While highly trained and competent, they are employed for neither their conversation skills, nor their easy company.”

A ripple of joy flowed through him that Mycroft might apply that label to him. “Well, I’m glad I made the grade,” he said instead.

“The bar was low,” Mycroft said with a slight smirk. “Do not flatter yourself.”

Greg couldn’t help barking a laugh at the quick retort, another thrill winding through him at Mycroft’s smile. “I’ll try to remember my place,” he said. “Shall we see if we can find our bags in all this?”


	3. Chapter 3

Their hotel was fine, Greg thought, but he wondered how Mycroft felt about it. Something told him Mycroft was used to a more luxurious level of accommodation than this. From their conversation so far, it seemed Mycroft travelled a lot; he probably visited more hotels in a year than Greg had in his whole life.

“Well, this is alright,” Greg said, setting his bag on the bed furthest the door. He turned back to Mycroft. “I’m assuming you’d prefer the bed closest to the door.”

Mycroft hesitated, then nodded at Greg. It wasn’t quite convincing, and Greg folded his arms and tilted his head. “Sincerely, whichever you prefer is fine.”

“I don’t know what you do exactly, Mycroft, but I’m guessing you don’t suffer fools gladly,” Greg said, “and I’m also guessing you know I deal with liars a lot. And only people trying to convince someone that a lie is true start a sentence with ‘honestly’.” He waved at Mycroft. “Or in this case, ‘sincerely’.”

Mycroft blinked. “I generally sleep further from the door,” he admitted. “Though most rooms in which I stay tend to have the door at the foot of the bed.”

It took Greg a second to realise what Mycroft was saying. “You stay in fancy places with suites,” he said, grinning. _I was right._

“I do,” Mycroft agreed awkwardly. “I do not tend to book my own accommodation.”

“Of course you don’t,” Greg replied with a grin. “Well, if you’d rather, I can sleep between you and the door.” He shrugged. “No problem.”

Mycroft hesitated, then picked up his bag and placed it beside Greg’s. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Greg grinned again as he moved his bag. “I’m guessing your security detail are close by and given how sudden this was, I can’t imagine we’ll be besieged by people trying to break in here.”

Mycroft had been unpacking his bag, and he paused, a suit hanging from his hand. “Assuming the reason for our landing in Newfoundland wasn’t the result of someone tampering with the plane,” he replied seriously.

Greg looked at him for a second. Mycroft was now studying his suit, but Greg was fairly sure the tips of his ears had turned pink. Before he could hold it in, laughter bubbled up inside him. Mycroft looked up, startled, and Greg tried to restrain himself. “Sorry, that was funny.” When Mycroft didn’t speak, only raising and eyebrow in reply, Greg said, “Shit, are you serious?”

“Ignoring such possibilities would be reckless,” Mycroft replied.

Greg didn’t mean to laugh again, but it was all so James-Bond he couldn’t help it. “Seriously? You seriously think someone damaged the plane so we’d land in Newfoundland and they could…what? Kidnap you?”

“Murder is more likely,” Mycroft replied stiffly.

Greg’s laughter had settled, but he was still grinning. “Given that you’re here and unpacking, can I assume this scenario is pretty far-fetched, then?”

Mycroft turned to look at Greg. He opened his mouth, then stopped to examine Greg. “You’re not concerned at all, are you?”

“Honestly,” Greg said, “If you were really worried about it, you wouldn’t be here, unpacking and listening me to be go on about conspiracy theories. Your security would be here in this room and I’d be out on my ear. Am I right?” Mycroft nodded slowly. “So no, I’m not really concerned.” Greg sat on the end of his bed, facing Mycroft. He made sure to have his serious face on when he asked, “How likely do you think it is that someone deliberately messed with the plane?”

Mycroft considered the question. “Unlikely,” he allowed. “Should anyone have access to do so it would have made more sense to simply crash the plane instead.”

Greg whistled. “So we’re talking about people who’d crash a plane full of people into the North Atlantic to get to you.” Mycroft’s sober nod made Greg’s eyes widen. “Wow, pretty impressive for a minor government official.”

“Very amusing, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, though his dry tone was ruined by the slight smile Greg spied.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied. “So can I assume that you’re more or less free to wander around, then?”

“My security detail are currently liaising with the airport to determine the cause of the failure. If it is deemed unsuspicious, my movements will not be restricted any more than usual.”

“And what’s usual?” Greg asked.

“Generally one member of my security team would accompany me at a discreet distance,” Mycroft replied.

“Okay,” Greg said.

Mycroft frowned. “Why all this interest in my security?” he asked.

“Don’t worry, I’m not planning anything,” Greg said, holding his hands up. “Just wondering if you wanted to come for a wander around town with me. See where we are.”

“I’d prefer to remain here,” Mycroft replied cautiously.

“What, forever?” Greg said.

“We will hardly be here that long,” Mycroft admonished him.

“It’s gonna be at least a couple of days,” Greg said. “And what are you going to do, anyway?” He gestured around. “They don’t have any reliable Wifi, remember, let alone secure enough for you to work. So unless you’re into local TV,” he gestured at the small television, “might as well come and explore.”

“With you,” Mycroft said uncertainly.

Greg shrugged. “If you like. Don’t do it if you don’t want to.”

For a second, he was sure Mycroft would reply, “Don’t worry, I won’t,” but instead he heard, “Why?”

“What?” Greg asked, caught offguard.

“Why?” Mycroft repeated. “Why would you offer to escort me around this town?” He frowned. “Where are we anyway?”

Escort him around town? How often did Mycroft socialise, Greg wondered.

“This is Gander,” Greg said, going with the easiest answer first. “And I’m not offering to escort you. I’m asking, as the only person on this plane I know, if you’d like to come with me to see what’s happening around Gander.”

“Probably nothing,” Mycroft replied. His eyes were on Greg, and it seemed as though he was calculating something.

“You won’t know unless you get out and see, though,” Greg told him. Geez, this guy was the hardest of hard sells.

“Don’t you want to call Dallas?” Mycroft asked suddenly. “I recall you were travelling to visit…someone.”

Greg blinked at him, his brain taking a moment to catch up, but when it did, guilt came crashing back over his head.

“Adrienne,” Greg breathed. How had he forgotten? Become so caught up with flirting, gently trying to convince Mycroft to venture out with him for what remained of the afternoon, that he forgot about her. A flutter of panicky guilt burbled through him. “Yes. I need to call the hospital…”

“I’ll give you some space,” Mycroft said, rising from his bed. “I will be next door, speaking to my security detail.” He hesitated beside the door. “Please let me know if you require assistance to break through any red tape.”

“Thanks,” Greg said, his light mood gone. He swallowed, hearing the heavy hotel door close behind Mycroft. He scooted over to the phone, staring at it for a long moment before picking it up and dialling reception. “Hi,” he said. “Can you find a phone number for me please? It’s in Dallas, Texas. Thank you.” He waited, impatient and dreading it all at once. “Yes, if you could put me through that would be great, thanks.”

Greg held his head in his hands as the phone rang, the familiar ring sequence of international calls.

“Hi, I’m looking for a patient…Adrienne Cooper…orthopaedics, I think? Yes, I’ll hold. Thank you.”

Greg tapped his finger against his forehead, trying not to think about what he’d do if he couldn’t get through. How could he ask Mycroft for help with this? It was such a small domestic issue, and it was now blindingly obvious that the power Mycroft wielded was very real and very discreet. Why would he bother turning his hand to helping Greg with this?

“Greg?” The voice at the other end of the phone was small, as international lines tend to make them, but there was also relief in it.

“Addie!” Greg exclaimed. “I didn’t think I’d get through!”

“Where are you?” Addie asked. “I thought you were getting on a plane?”

“Diverted,” Greg told her. “We’ve landed in Newfoundland. No idea how long, apparently it could be a while…” he felt his throat thicken at the thought he couldn’t be there for her. “How are you? How’s the baby? I’m so sorry, I should have been there…”

“No,” Adrienne said, “none of that. We’re fine. She’s in intensive care for a while,” he could hear the tears in her voice and his own welled again, “but she’s perfect.”

“And you?” Greg asked, dropping his head in his hands as relief made him weak.

“Fine,” Adrienne said. “I’ll be setting off some metal detectors now, I think there’s a fair few pins and stuff in me. But I’ll be fine.”

Greg sighed with relief, the worst of his nerves leaving his body as she reassured him. “I still wish I was there.” She was so young, and now with the baby, and her own injuries to think about…

“I know,” Adrienne said. “But Delilah’s here, and she’s organised everything. Everyone goes through her, Wanda’s doing the animals, and Georgie volunteered to cover the shop.”

“So you’ve got people,” Greg said. His heart eased even further as he realised his planning, all the careful, guilt laced manipulation and encouragement of the right people into her life had worked. She was surrounded by good people who would help her while he was gone.

“Our people are good ‘uns,” she told him. “Don’t you want to know what I called the baby?”

“Yes!” Greg asked. “A girl?”

“A girl,” Adrienne said, pride colouring her voice. “Her name’s Alexandra.”

“Alexandra?” Greg repeated. They hadn’t really discussed names, but he hadn’t heard that one come up.

“I couldn’t name her Gregory,” Adrienne said. “So I had to go with your middle name.”

“Oh,” Greg whispered. _Gregory Alexander…_“Alexandra.”

“Is that okay?” she asked him.

“Of course,” he replied thickly. “Thank you.”

They talked for a few more moments until he could hear the tiredness in her voice. “Listen, is Delilah there? You get some sleep.”

“’kay,” she yawned. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Greg said. When Delilah’s voice came through the phone, he smiled. She was everyone’s grandmother, and if she was there, Adrienne would be safe. “Hi,” he said. “How is she? Can you talk?”

“Just a moment,” Delilah said. She covered the receiver and he heard her murmur something before she spoke again. “A nurse is in with Adrienne. I’m in the hallway now. She’s gonna be fine.”

“And Lewis?” Greg asked, hating the shape of his mouth as he said that name.

“Gone,” Delilah said. There was a grim satisfaction in her voice that Greg knew too well from his job, and he understood immediately – but still wanted to hear the words. “Dead?”

“Jumped in front of a train right after he did it,” Delilah said. “Barely enough left to bury decently, not that he deserves it.”

Greg exhaled, a long shaking breath. It was over. He was gone, and other than the scars he’d left on Adrienne, they could forget he’d ever poisoned their lives.

“And how is she?” he asked. “Really?”

“Shaken up,” Delilah said, “though the drugs are doing their thing at the moment.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I could hear that.”

“The baby’s fine,” Delilah said. “A little undercooked, but she’s only in the NICU as a precaution and she’ll be transferred to special care in a few days.”

“Special care?” Greg echoed. If there was one thing he had no idea about, it was how American children’s hospitals worked.

“It’s a step down from NICU,” Delilah said, her smooth, comfortable voice soothing Greg. “Alexandra’ll stay there while Adrienne’s in hospital. She’ll be looked after. They both will.”

“Adrienne said you were helping,” Greg said, the understatement making him wince.

“She’s family,” Delilah said. “Of course I am. Gotta get everyone organised to keep things going. Don’t you worry.”

Greg felt himself well up at the easy confidence of this woman. Not for the first time, he thanked fate or whatever for bringing her into their lives.

“And I thought you were coming right back,” Delilah said. “Where is it you’re calling from?”

“Newfoundland,” Greg said absently, still working on his breathing.

“Where?” Delilah replied.

“Eastern Canada,” Greg told her. “Any further east and we’d get our toes wet, apparently.”

“And how long will you be there?” Delilah asked.

“I have no idea,” Greg groaned. “We’re lucky to have these phone lines, they say. The weather’s bad, and the plane we landed may not have the right parts to get fixed, so it could take them a few days to even get the parts here.” He sighed. “I really have no idea.”

“Well, we’ve got things covered here,” Delilah said. “You don’t need to worry yourself about what’s going on. He’s gone, and Adrienne and Alexandra are fine.”

“What about Claudine?” Greg asked, bracing himself to ask. “Has anyone called her?”

“Addie doesn’t want her contacted,” Delilah said. “And I’m not calling her.”

Greg felt himself relax. Claudine would be nothing but trouble, but if she wanted to call, he would honour Adrienne’s wishes on that particular subject.

“Thank you,” Greg whispered. “I don’t know what-”

“Don’t,” Delilah told him. “We are family, Greg Lestrade, and we take care of each other.”

“Right,” Greg replied. “Well, I don’t know when I’ll be able to ring again. But I’ll try and get through when I know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” Delilah said. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”

“I will,” Greg said. “Love you, Mamma.”

“Love you too, Bubba.”

Greg hung up, their affectionate greeting still ringing comfort in his ears. Delilah had been there for some rough times, and that woman was constitutionally incapable of being called by her name once you were taken under her wing. She was Mamma, and you were Bubba, and that’s how you knew who was family.

He sat for a few moments, replaying the conversations in his head, breathing out more of the worry he’d been holding inside. Lewis was dead. Adrienne was safe. The baby – named for him, for God’s sake – was safe. And even if he was stuck here, on an island in Canada, they were surrounded by people to keep them that way.

After Claudine had left, he’d been careful to build up their people, make sure that if something happened to him, Adrienne would be taken care of without having to go back to her mother. He’d done the best he could, but geez, he’d only know her a few months before her mother had dumped them both – a lover she was tired of and her not-quite-of-age daughter, leaving only an email address as contact. He couldn’t let Adrienne get stuck in the system – pregnant to a bell-end of a boyfriend, frightened and otherwise alone in the world. The same boyfriend who’d broken her legs and then jumped in front of a train rather than face the consequences of his actions.

_Jesus._

With a groan, Greg lay back on his bed, one arm over his eyes. After a few minutes, he sat up, stretching. If he was going to be stuck here, he might as well make the most of it. From what he could see, the light was already starting to fade, so his exploration of the town might have to wait until the next day. Right now, though, his airplane meal was a distant memory and he could do with something to eat. Whomever was at the front desk might also be able to help him with some questions he had about the town before he ventured out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to Saratonin for her encouragement with the next few chapters <3

Grabbing his jacket, Greg picked up the room key on his way out, idly wondering if he would run into Mycroft in the corridor, more disappointed than he cared to admit when he didn’t. He could do with some company, something to take his mind off what was happening in Dallas. A bit of flirting wouldn’t hurt his self-esteem, either.

“Hi,” he said as he approached the reception desk. It was the same woman who’d checked them in, though she looked considerably calmer now. “Things a bit quieter here now?”

“Yes,” she said. “Now that everyone’s settled in.”

“Any word about the plane?” Greg asked.

“Nope,” she replied, adding, “we’ll put up a sign when there is.”

“That many people asking, hey?” Greg asked.

“Yep,” she replied, smiling warmly at him. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Greg had the distinct impression she was offering more than reception services. “I just wondered if you could help me with some questions I have about town,” he asked blandly.

“Sure,” she replied, leaning to one side and grabbing a folder. “Why don’t you start with this. It’s got a map, and some of the places of interest, a bit of the story around 2001, and if you have more questions I’ll be here until 7.”

Greg took it, grinning. “You’ve had a few like me so far today, haven’t you?”

“Yep,” she replied easily, resting her chin on her hand. “Not a lot of people end up here without a fair bit of planning. Except back in 2001, but that’s hardly the same.”

“What happened in 2001?” Greg asked.

She raised an eyebrow and tapped the folder she’d just given him. “It’s in here,” she told him with a wink.

“Thanks,” Greg said. “I hope there’s not a test at the end.”

“You never know,” she said in a definitely flirty tone. “If you want someone to help you explore the scenic walks or the museum, I’m off tomorrow.”

Greg grinned, shaking his head. The chances of him getting involved with someone local was zero, he told himself. Especially with Mycroft around…but it was nice to have someone flirting with him. He took the folder, reading ‘Welcome to Gander’ emblazoned across front. Maybe he’d sit in the bar and read it, get an idea of what was available for him to do tomorrow.

“Gregory,” a voice greeted him as he stood in the door of the bar, surveying the crowd, clocking one of Mycroft’s security team sitting unobtrusively at the far end of the bar. He turned, and Mycroft raised his glass from the small table he occupied near the fireplace. He was drinking Scotch or something, Greg could see.

“Hey,” Greg said. “Great minds, huh?”

Mycroft nodded noncommittally.

“I’ll just grab a drink,” Greg said. The bar was pretty full, which didn’t surprise him; the hotel had to be at capacity, and with darkness just about fallen outside and probably nobody familiar with the town, it was either the bar or the restaurant if you wanted to get out of your room.

Greg ordered a beer, making his way carefully through the crowd to Mycroft. “You don’t mind if I join you?” Greg asked.

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied smoothly.

“Just thought you might have fancied some time to yourself,” Greg replied, dropping into the wingback chair beside Mycroft. He felt a little out of his element but Mycroft looked right at home in a fancy chair, sitting beside a fireplace. Definitely not the same as drinking American beer by the light of his TV, Greg thought to himself.

“This hardly qualifies,” Mycroft murmured, indicating all the people around them. “Should I have preferred to be entirely uninterrupted I would have acquired a private space.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Well, compared to your roommate who doesn’t shut up,” he said, grinning, “this is much better.” The beer was surprisingly good, and he took a decent draw, watching Mycroft process his words.

“I assure you, if I require time alone in our shared space I will be tactful about it,” Mycroft told him.

Greg rolled his eyes theatrically. “You mean the security folks will ask instead of tossing me out on my ear?” he said.

“Something like that,” Mycroft replied, amusement crossing his expression. His face sobered as he asked, “Might I ask after your phone call? Can I assume everything was satisfactory? You appear to be in good spirits.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine, thank God,” Greg said, sipping at his beer and ignoring the mild worry still swirling lazily in his gut. He should drink slowly, given how long it was since he’d eaten. Last thing he wanted to do was make a drunken pass at Mycroft and end up sharing with one of the security guards instead. “I got through to Adrienne, and I spoke to a friend of ours too.”

“And she’s well?” Mycroft asked tentatively. “Circumstances considered, of course.”

“Yes,” Greg replied. An explanation was in order, but he wanted to keep it short. “Her ex was…jealous. He beat her up pretty badly, broke some bones and stuff. She was pregnant, and they had to do a Caesarean so they could save them both. Anyway, the baby’s fine, just a few weeks early, and Adrienne’ll recover.”

Mycroft nodded, his face giving nothing away. “And the ex?” he asked carefully.

“Jumped in front of a train,” Greg said grimly. “Can’t say I wouldn’t have liked a few moments alone with him…but at least he’s gone now. She doesn’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m pleased she’s recovering,” he said. “And you said she had someone there with her?”

“Delilah,” Greg said. He sighed. “A family friend. She’s been taking care of us both for a while now. When I had to fly back to London she was keeping an eye on Adrienne for me. She’s more like family, really. She’ll keep everything running until I can get back down there.”

“You seem more relaxed than earlier,” Mycroft replied.

Greg nodded, ignoring the twinge of guilt at the moment’s he’d completely forgotten about her, while flirting with Mycroft. “Adrienne’s in good hands,” he said. “Delilah’ll take care of her, and there’s a good group of people to back them both up. Wait, there’s three of them now. Delilah, Adrienne, the baby. Christ.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “She’s got a baby now.”

Mycroft nodded, twisting his glass a little on the coaster. Greg took a deep breath, trying to relax properly. He wondered idly what would happen when he got home, but put the thought firmly out of his mind. Chewing on the same idea over and over wouldn’t change anything, it would just stress him out, and the best thing he could do was stay calm up here. Make sure he was ready to do whatever he needed to do when he got home.

“So, did you get one of these?” Greg asked, waving his ‘Welcome to Gander’ folder at Mycroft.

“No,” Mycroft replied, tilting his head to read the cover. “I did, however, contact my office.”

“Right,” Greg replied. “And?”

Mycroft’s mouth pressed together in a very unimpressed line. “I have been assured that my absence will not significantly impact the country,” he said flatly.

“Good thing you’re so junior,” Greg said, sipping at his beer. “Imagine if you had actual responsibilities.” He sighed dramatically. “People are gonna have to get their own coffee.”

He wondered if he’d gone too far, teasing Mycroft, but after a moment a slight smile crossed the reserved face. 

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “It does mean, however, I am under no obligation to continue working while I am here.”

“Excellent,” Greg said. “So can I count on you as my exploring buddy?”

Mycroft blinked. “Exploring?” he repeated.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Apparently there’s a bunch of scenic lookouts and stuff, as well as the museum and just,” he shrugged, “generally walking around town.”

“Scenic lookouts?” Mycroft repeated. He hesitated, looking down at his suit. “I’m not sure I’ll be attired appropriately for that.”

“Me either,” Greg replied. “I mean, I mainly packed suits and stuff. I think I have a pair of jeans or something.” He shrugged. “There’ll be somewhere in town we can buy clothes, though. And hiking boots.” He grinned at Mycroft, aware he was pushing the man, but somehow unable to stop. If he didn’t, he could see Mycroft sitting inside the whole time they were here and for some reason that rankled.

_We’re in a brand new place, for who knows how long, we might as well enjoy it._

He had no idea why he was thinking ‘we’ instead of ‘I’.

He hoped Mycroft was okay with it.

“Hiking…boots?” Mycroft repeated doubtfully.

“Well, trainers at least,” Greg amended. No point pushing it too far. “But something for walking a trail.” He looked pointedly at Mycroft’s shoes. “Handmade Italian leather’s probably not suitable.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Assuming I am agreeable,” he said carefully, “I’m not sure any of my wardrobe would be suitable.”

“Well,” Greg said, draining his beer and picking up the folder, “why don’t we have a look at this lot while we eat? The receptionist said she’d answer any other questions if we had them.”

“Very well,” Mycroft agreed.

“Great,” Greg said. “I’m going to order something to eat.” He looked around. “Do you think we should head into the restaurant?”

“Most likely,” Mycroft replied. He lifted his glass, and Greg couldn’t help noticing how long his fingers were as they gripped the glass. Something swooped low in his belly as he considered…

Stop it, Greg told himself, draining his own beer. A bit of flirting was one thing, but entertaining fantasies about this man was getting ridiculous.

The waitress showed them to a table, and Greg pulled his chair around to sit at a right angle to Mycroft. “So we can both see,” he explained, waving the folder.

Mycroft nodded seriously. “I assume there’s a substantial aeronautical museum,” he said. “Given the size of the airport and the role it played in the events of 2001.”

Greg looked up from the map of the town. “You’re the second person to mention 2001. What happened here?”

Before Mycroft could answer, the waitress returned for their orders. When she’d gone again, Greg raised his eyebrows, waiting for Mycroft to pick up the thread of their conversation.

Mycroft looked at him for a long moment. “Do you remember September, 2001?”

Greg blinked. “Nine-eleven?” he asked. “Of course. But what does that have to do with Gander?”

“When the FAA closed American airspace most of the inbound planes were diverted to Canadian airports,” Mycroft explained. “Given the extended runways at Gander airport, many cross-Atlantic flights landed here.”

“Right,” Greg said, picking up the ketchup. “So the passengers must have been stranded here, then.”

“Correct,” Mycroft replied.

“I thought you didn’t know anything about Newfoundland,” Greg said, grinning at him. “Been holding out on me?”

“No,” Mycroft replied. “I simply read the introductory booklets provided in the hotel rooms.”

“Really?” Greg asked, surprised. “When did you do that?”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. “When you were using the phone in our room. I wasn’t sure how long your phone call would last, and I didn’t want to intrude.”

Greg blinked at him. “Seriously?” he asked. “Thanks, that’s really considerate.”

Mycroft shrugged. “It was useful to read about the local area,” he said. Greg found the brochure for the museum, flicking through it.

“Everything’s closed now of course,” Greg said. “But tomorrow we could start there?”

Mycroft nodded. “Assuming we are still here,” he said pointedly.

“There’s that optimism again,” Greg said grinning.

“Realism,” Mycroft disagreed, but Greg saw his lip twitch as he spoke.

“Have you heard anything?” Greg asked. “Seriously.”

“Nothing,” Mycroft replied. “My security are not able to exert any influence without contact with…my employer. I believe the receptionist will be the font of all knowledge in this regard.”

“Yes, she said the same to me,” Greg replied, his face flushing at the memory of her flirting. “I got the impression she was quite eager to help.”

Mycroft’s eyes raked over his face, one eyebrow rising. “I’m sure she was,” he said, voice perfectly neutral.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Greg asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Mycroft replied. He looked as though he was going to add something, but closed his mouth.

Greg studied him for a long moment, wondering if Mycroft was going to comment on the flirty receptionist. Had he spoken to her as well, or was he intimating that the receptionist would naturally flirt with Greg? That would imply that he thought Greg was worth flirting with, wouldn’t it? He wanted to ask, but something stopped him. Might be best not to push too hard quite yet. They didn’t know how long they’d be here and he didn’t want it to get awkward.

“Well assuming we’re still here,” Greg said, steering the conversation back to their potential plans for tomorrow. “We should start there.”

The waitress returned in time to hear his comment. “Joining the mayor, then?”

“The mayor?” Greg asked, smiling at her as she set down their meals.

“You’re talking about starting your day at Tim Horton’s, right?” she said, one hand on her hip.

“No,” Greg said, tempering his reply with a smile. “Should we be?”

“Depends whether you have a sweet tooth or not,” she said. “Anyway, it’s where the mayor starts his day. Everyone knows you can find him there in the morning.”

“He had a sweet tooth, does he?” Greg asked, flicking a look at Mycroft. This conversation was bizarre, but Mycroft’s face didn’t show anything but polite interest.

“No,” she said, “but everyone else does.”

Greg grinned again. “We’ll take it on board,” he said. “Thanks.”

She winked at him then moved away.

“Was she flirting with you?” Mycroft asked incredulously.

“I think so,” Greg replied, surveying his meal. He shrugged. “I didn’t really notice.” Mycroft was looking at him peculiarly, so he cleared his throat. “So I guess we could do Tim Horton’s first, if you’re up for it.”

“I’m not familiar with the brand,” Mycroft admitted. He picked up his cutlery and began to eat.

“Neither am I,” Greg said, grinning. “Isn’t that the point?”

Mycroft looked at him uncertainly. “Of what?”

“Of being here,” Greg said.

“I didn’t realise there was a purpose to this situation,” Mycroft said.

“Well, not for us being here,” Greg said. “But if we’re going to be here, we might as well explore. See what it’s all about.”

Mycroft’s expression was guarded, and Greg waited, wondering what was going through that obviously exceptionally smart mind. He swiped one of his chips through the ketchup, popping it in his mouth as Mycroft continued to consider his words.

“I hadn’t considered that perspective,” Mycroft said eventually.

“Wow, you’re a politician, aren’t you?” Greg said. “I mean, that’s the most neutral response I’ve ever heard.”

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed,” he murmured. “Politically savvy conversation skills are an advantage in my profession.”

Greg grinned. “Me too, but I’m not usually so posh about it.”

“Posh?” Mycroft’s eyes went wide.

“Yep,” Greg replied. “I’m usually trying to persuade people to tell me why they stabbed someone behind a pub.”

“Well, I must admit to a sweet tooth,” Mycroft said. “Though I generally do not indulge.”

Greg snorted. “We’re stuck in Canada for who knows how long, and I’m planning on us walking as many of these scenic trails as we can manage. Weather permitting, of course.”

Mycroft looked at him. “Your point?” he said.

“My point,” Greg said, grinning, “is that this is hardly regular life.” He waved one hand in the air. “You can’t work, neither of us can do any of our usual stuff, so let’s just,” he shrugged, “enjoy it. Whatever there is to do here.”

“You’re very confident,” Mycroft said finally. He’d considered Greg for a long while before speaking, and Greg felt relief at his words. There was a whole list of less complimentary terms people had used in the past and Greg half expected one of those instead.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I’ve been told that.” He didn’t feel completely confident if he was being honest with himself, but he didn’t want Mycroft to see that. He knew he was still pushing Mycroft, but from what he could see, Mycroft kind of needed it. And from the tentative questions and long silences as Mycroft’s mind thought through Greg’s words, he might even be considering some of what Greg was suggesting.

It was a bit of a rush, really.


	5. Chapter 5

“And does your confidence extend to my response?” Mycroft asked, raising one eyebrow as he placed some fish carefully in his mouth.

Greg didn’t notice how his lips wrapped around the fork as it was withdrawn. He shrugged carelessly, channelling some of the young offenders he dealt with far too often, wondering if he was equally unconvincing. “I’m just making suggestions.”

“And observations,” Mycroft added. “You’re quite astute.”

“Part of the job,” Greg said. He grinned as his stomach swooped with the compliment. “Does that mean I’ve been right, then?”

Mycroft inclined his head. “Perhaps.”

The quiet purr of satisfaction shot through Greg with a powerful surge.

“So does that mean you’ll keep me company?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said finally. “At least one of my security team will accompany us.”

“Of course,” Greg replied.

“I hope it doesn’t hamper your self-confidence,” Mycroft said wryly. “Should further receptionists offer to…help.”

“Nah,” Greg replied, grinning at him. “No problem.”

Mycroft frowned a little, then his expression cleared. He didn’t reply, and they finished their meals in silence. Greg wasn’t quite sure what he’d said, but he gave Mycroft the space he clearly needed to think.

“Dessert?” Greg asked when their plates were cleared, raising one eyebrow.

“If we are to visit Tim Horton’s tomorrow,” Mycroft said, pronouncing the words carefully, “I should refrain this evening.”

“Fair enough,” Greg said. “I’d better do the same. Not as young as I used to be.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow but didn’t comment. They sat quietly for a moment before Greg took a breath.

“Well it looks like there might be a hockey game on in the bar,” Greg said. “Might be worth checking out?”

“From what I understand of this country,” Mycroft replied, “a hockey game is always in progress.”

“Probably,” Greg grinned. “Like football in Texas. Well, American football. We don’t really get ice hockey down there, but yeah, up here it’s pretty much religion.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said in a voice that spoke of a bewildered lack of understanding.

“Fancy a drink and some local sport?” Greg asked him with a grin. He wondered if Mycroft had ever sat and watched a sporting match in his life.

“I will have to decline,” Mycroft said politely. “I will instead retire for the evening. Do not feel bound to accompany me, however.”

Greg looked at him, feeling his head cock to the side in an unconscious imitation of Mycroft from earlier. “Sick of me already?” he asked.

Mycroft smiled politely. “Not at all,” he murmured, a slight flush colouring his cheeks.

Much as Greg wanted to follow that particular course, he cut the man a break instead. “Actually,” Greg said, “I’m guessing you’re a bit over people and you’re hoping I hang out down here for a while.”

Mycroft had already opened his mouth to deny it, and Greg watched with amusement as he blinked, processing Greg’s words. “Well…yes,” he said, surprised. Immediately his eyes went wide at the impolite admission.

“It’s fine,” Greg assured him, before he could apologise. “We’ve been stuck on a plane all day, and you’ve had me in your face for most of the time we’ve been here.” Mycroft still looked uncertain, so Greg leaned forward. “Seriously, Mycroft.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied finally, the confusion passing across his expression again. “Thank you.”

He stood up, straightening his jacket and pushing in his seat. Greg did the same.

“I’ll be up later on, then,” Greg said. “Enjoy your down time.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said again, another confused look flitting across his face for a moment before he turned to leave.

Greg paid for their meal then headed into the bar. He didn’t know a single thing about hockey, but surely watching hockey in a bar was more or less the same as watching football in a pub. He grinned to himself, thinking about how long it had been since he’d sat in a pub watching English football. Or sat in a pub at all, for that matter.

As a cheer rose, Greg approached the TV, peering at the image. He stopped, blinking.

“Is that Arsenal and Newcastle?”

“Yeah, mate,” a British voice called over the celebrations.

“Brilliant,” Greg breathed, feeling suddenly more English than he had in a long time.

“Havin’ a pint, then?” A bloke waved him over, and Greg grinned. Hockey was alright, but this was _home_.

He accepted the pint with a, “Cheers,” then turned his attention to the game. “What’s happening, then?”

Within moments he was engrossed in a conversation debating the merits of various possible new coaches for Arsenal. His pint was soon empty, and Greg ordered a second, and in time, a third, the world going pleasantly blurry as one game ended and another began. It had been so long since he’d watched a match, though he kept up with the news, and the whole experience – standing in a pub with a group boisterously watching the football, more and more beer in his system – was a wonderful throwback. He’d not had a second to himself in London this trip, and it was too long since his last night out. Maybe when things were more settled in Texas, he could…but someone was caught in a tackle as illegal as any Greg had seen and the protests from the bar pulled him out of his musings and back to the game.

Suddenly the football was over, the bartender good naturedly ushering them out of the bar. Greg had his arm around someone as they sang ‘God Save The Queen’. The lyrics were more difficult than usual, Greg thought hazily, but boy did he love these guys.

“A’right,” Greg said finally, as their group made it to the foyer. “y’guys ‘re great.” He burped a little, wincing as the world swirled a little. “Imma go to bed.”

The group farewelled him and Greg concentrated hard on each stair up to his floor. Well, he hoped it was his floor. Frowning, he dug his key out of his pocket, relieved to see the room number printed in large numbers on the keychain. A moment or two stumbling up and down the hall – thank God he was on the right floor already – and Greg finally matched the numbers on a door with the numbers on his key. Intense concentration while the doorframe rocked back and forth, and he was inside.

“Shhh,” he told himself as the door crashed open, Greg stumbling into the wall before closing the door with all the care he could manage. He definitely needed to pee, and the bathroom light was conveniently on, so he availed himself of the facilities. Tooth brushing was too hard, as was undressing at all; all his belongings were still in his suitcase, and he was unbelievably tired all of a sudden.

There were two beds, which seemed more than he really needed. Greg collapsed on the nearest, grunting as he pulled the duvet over him, pressing his face into the cool sheets with relief. What a great night, he thought blearily.

+++

Greg groaned. Pressing his face into his pillow, he worked his jaw, wincing at the foul taste in his mouth. He obviously hadn’t brushed his teeth, which when combined with the pounding in his head and aversion to light meant he was probably drinking too much last night. He shifted experimentally, the pull of fabric telling him he was also still dressed.

“Christ,” Greg croaked. Why the hell hadn’t he drunk some water? Where was he, anyway? The bed was wrong for him to be at home, and he thought there might be someone in the room. Carefully, he sat up, keeping his eyes closed for as long as possible.

When he was sitting fully upright, he opened his eyes a little at a time. A hotel room, another bed…and a gorgeous redhead sitting in a chair beside it, looking amusedly at him.

“Good morning,” Mycroft said, and the previous day came flooding back.

“Good morning,” Greg replied tentatively, though he thought it was really too early to tell about that. “Jesus, was I drinking last night?”

“I believe so,” Mycroft said. “I left you in the restaurant. You had planned to join a group watching hockey in the bar.”

“Someone switched it to football,” Greg remembered. “There was beer, too.”

“You were not entirely sober when you came in,” Mycroft told him. The mild rebuke Greg expected was absent, replaced with something more like…fond amusement? He was probably imagining the fondness, actually.

“Shit, I woke you, didn’t I?” Greg asked, his voice coarser than usual.

“My security team alerted me,” Mycroft said. “They noticed you in the hallway and wanted to ensure you came in safely.”

“That’s nice of them,” Greg said weakly.

“Safely for me,” Mycroft replied in amusement. “In case someone tried to enter alongside you.”

“Of course,” Greg murmured. He scrubbed one hand across his face. “Jesus, I need coffee. And something to eat.”

“If donuts would suffice, we could follow our initial plans and visit Tim Horton’s,” Mycroft suggested.

“God, yes,” Greg groaned. “I need a shower probably.” He squinted outside. “What time is it?”

“Mid-morning,” Mycroft replied. “Half past nine.”

“That’s your mid-morning?” Greg asked. He hadn’t slept as late as he expected, then. With a groan, he pushed the duvet off him, a tangled mess of sheets spilling to the floor. “I’ll have a quick shower. Then coffee.”

“I have aspirin if you’d care for some,” Mycroft said. “And might I suggest a significant volume of water?”

“That’d be great,” Greg said from the edge of the bed. He paused, waiting for his head to stabilise after sitting up too fast. He heard Mycroft moving around, then a pair of well-polished shoes appeared in his vision. He looked up, blinking, to see Mycroft standing close, the amusement on his face barely concealed.

“Water,” he murmured, passing Greg a large glass, “and aspirin.” Their fingers brushed against the glass and again when Mycroft placed the small packet in his hand. Greg tried to ignore it – the swoop in his belly made him feel nauseated.

“Thanks,” Greg managed. There was something surprisingly intimate about the way they were looking at each other, and from the look in Mycroft’s eyes, he could feel the unusual atmosphere, too. “We’ll have to find somewhere to get new shoes and stuff, too.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft murmured.

“I’ll just hit the shower, then,” Greg said. He waited for Mycroft to step back, very aware that he’d be toe to toe – and more critically, nose to nose – with Mycroft if he stood immediately. A rifle through his bag for clean clothes, and he was in and out of the bathroom in ten minutes flat. Clean teeth and a colder-than-normal shower made him feel much better, though the water and aspirin probably did their bit too.

“That was quick,” Mycroft said. He’d been sitting looking out the window, hands folded in his lap. Greg wondered what he was thinking about. How often did he sit and do nothing? From the sound of it, not often.

“Another underrated professional skill,” Greg said, running his hand through his damp hair. “Sometimes when we’re in the middle of a big case, half an hour at home between working days is all I can get. I need to be able to shower, shave, change and back out the door as quick as I can.”

Mycroft nodded, rising from his chair and walking towards Greg. “You didn’t shave,” Mycroft noted from a few steps away.

Greg rubbed one hand over his jaw, sparks running up his back that Mycroft had noticed. “Nah,” he said. “I’m on holiday. I can shave later if I need to.”

Mycroft nodded, obviously not wanting to put an opinion forward. “Shall we seek out coffee?” he asked.

“Sure,” Greg said. “And then clothes.”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighed. He looked down at his suit. Three piece navy pinstripe, Greg noticed, with a tie and matching pocket square. The impish idea _I wonder if he matches his underwear too_ came and was instantly quashed. Not a line of thought he needed to be following right now.

“Do you think…I mean, you could probably leave the tie here,” Greg said, gesturing. “You’ll have to take it off when we buy something more suitable anyway.”

Mycroft looked aghast, one hand rising protectively over the deep red fabric, his eyes wide as he met Greg’s eyes.

“Just a suggestion,” Greg said, with a slight smile. He gestured at his own attire – button down shirt and work trousers plus the jacket he’d been wearing yesterday – and added, “I’m probably too well dressed and I’m nowhere near as dressed up as you are.”

The grey eyes – they really were uncommon, Greg thought – narrowed a little, and for a moment neither of them moved. Then a thrill ran through Greg as those fingers – splayed as though Greg might try and remove the tie himself – curled around the tie, carefully tugging the knot loose before removing the tie bar and sliding the fabric out from under his collar. Greg could hear the hiss of silk on expensive cotton, and the way Mycroft held his eyes made the action almost erotic.

He swallowed, unable to help himself.

Mycroft blinked at him, folding the tie without looking. “I expect you’ll suggest the pocket square is now redundant?” he murmured.

“Yep,” Greg said. His heart was beating much too fast give how rubbish he felt, but this was something he wasn’t prepared to miss for the sake of a little vertigo. He watched the pocket square disappear, placed carefully on the tie now sitting on the bedside table. Finally those long fingers slipped two buttons loose at Mycroft’s neck before tucking into his pockets, firmly signally the last of his amendments to his outfit.

“Better?” Mycroft asked. He seemed to have been watching Greg as much as Greg was watching him, and there was a strange flare of emotions, too fast to identify them all…but there was definitely disapproval in there somewhere. Greg didn’t understand that part, that was for sure, but he’d been asked a question.

“Yes,” Greg replied. “Should we go?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft murmured.

They were outside and walking along the sidewalk before Greg realised he had no idea where they were going.

“You studied the map, didn’t you?” Greg asked.

“I did,” Mycroft said. “Don’t worry, I know where we’re going.”

“Good,” Greg said. He squinted into the sunlight. “Because this light is far too strong for this time of the morning.”

Mycroft glanced sideways, raising one eyebrow. “I’m not sure eight minutes to ten would be considered early,” he murmured.

“Depends on how late you came to bed,” Greg said. He flicked a glance sideways. “So what did you do last night?”

Mycroft blinked, looking uncertainly at him. “Took some time to reflect,” he said cautiously.

“Doing what?” Greg asked.

“Specifically?” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg replied, surprised. He looked at Mycroft as he considered the question as though it was brand new. “You’re not used to people asking what you’ve been up to, are you?”

“No,” Mycroft said consideringly.

“Is it because the answer’s always work?” Greg asked. He meant the question as a joke, but the sharp look Mycroft gave him, along with the way he drew himself up defensively made it clear Greg had missed the mark. “Sorry,” Greg said. “That was meant to be a joke.”

Mycroft didn’t speak for a few moments, until the sign for Tim Horton’s became visible as they turned a corner. “Disturbingly close to the truth,” he said with a slight smile.

Greg nodded, still berating himself for his clumsiness. “Well I’m going to order something ridiculously caffeine and sugar filled,” he said, holding the door for Mycroft. “And at least two donuts.”

“Of course you are,” Mycroft murmured. “Another professional skill, I take it?”

“Oi!” Greg said, joining him at the counter. “No copper jokes, please. Besides, some of us didn’t get all our beauty sleep last night.”

“It doesn’t show,” Mycroft said, and the way he turned to study the menu made it clear the words had slipped out without his full permission.

Greg wondered what he meant by that. It was the second time _he thinks you’re attractive_ could have explained a comment by Mycroft, but really, the chances of him thinking that – let alone mentioning it – were pretty close to zero, so he pushed the idea aside.

It was impossible.


	6. Chapter 6

“G’morning,” the server said brightly. “What can I get you?”

“Something big and caffeinated with a decent amount of sugar in it,” Greg said, grinning at her. “And we’ll want a selection of donuts, too.”

“Of course,” she said, grinning at him. “Can I suggest a Caramel Latte with an extra shot?”

“Perfect,” Greg replied. He turned to Mycroft. “What’re you going to have?”

“Black coffee, two shots,” Mycroft told her. “My shout,” he said to Greg. “You paid for dinner last night, I suspect.” He winced. “I apologise for leaving you to settle the bill.”

“No problem,” Greg said.

Their server handed him a box of something as she turned to make their coffee. Mycroft peered over as Greg opened the box. It was some kind of tiny donut, Greg thought, popping one in his mouth. “Oh, that’s amazing,” he groaned, immediately eating another. He offered the box to Mycroft with a raised eyebrow.

“Not right now, thank you,” Mycroft deferred.

“More for me,” Greg said through his third donut.

“Charming,” Mycroft said, though his mouth twitched as Greg grinned at him.

“How lovely of you to notice,” Greg replied.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said to the server as she handed their coffees across the counter. “Might I ask what these are called?”

“Timbits,” she said. “Easier than donuts and I got the impression your boyfriend was in need of sugar.”

Greg and Mycroft reacted at the same time, though to give Mycroft credit, he was far smoother about the whole thing. A moment frozen, followed by, “Thank you. That is very considerate,” as opposed to Greg’s coughing fit as he choked on a Timbit. He finally got himself sorted, eyes streaming as he waved at the confused looking server, following Mycroft to a table where he slumped in his chair and immediately started laughing.

“Oh my God,” he said, as quietly as he could considering how hard he was laughing. Mycroft was rolling his eyes at Greg, a flush high on his cheeks as he sipped his coffee. “Oh come on, Mycroft, that was funny.” He leaned in, hissing, “she thinks we’re together!”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. He seemed to be considering what to say next. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Bother me?” Greg asked, pulling his drink closer. He took a tentative sip then a larger one when it wasn’t too hot. “No, why would it?”

Mycroft pressed his lips together before saying carefully, “Most men wouldn’t be too pleased to be assumed to have a male partner.”

“Maybe,” Greg said, shrugging, “but I’m not most men. And I’ve had male partners before, so it’s hardly a foreign concept to me.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Really.”

“Really,” Greg said. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Mycroft said a shade too quickly.

Greg frowned, looking hard at him. He wouldn’t have thought someone as diplomatic as Mycroft would have allowed prejudice to show so openly in his voice. He was blushing again, but his discomfort wasn’t quite right for the possibility Greg was considering. He put his coffee down, looking hard, waiting for more clues to tell him why Mycroft was so uncomfortable.

“Are you gay?” Greg asked, the solution coming to his brain and out of his mouth without much thought in between. He winced. “Shit, sorry. I don’t seem to have much of a filter on me this morning.”

“Drink your coffee,” Mycroft told him, but he didn’t sound angry. “As it happens,” he said delicately, “I am.”

“Okay,” Greg said, when it seemed Mycroft appeared to be waiting for a response. When nothing else was forthcoming, he tipped the rapidly emptying Timbits box. “If you want one of these, you’d better move fast. They’re bloody amazing and I’m not promising I’ll be able to save you any.”

Hesitating, Mycroft nodded, taking one and delicately placing it between his teeth. Greg raised his coffee to his lips for an excuse to swallow as he watched long fingers, a flash of tongue, teeth…as much as he was trying to ignore it, to bring the situation in Dallas to the front of his mind, he simply couldn’t help noticing details about Mycroft that made him more aware than ever that he was most definitely not straight. Greg had zero hang-ups about his orientation – he didn’t often put a label on it – but the list of ‘ways this would be complicated’ was longer than he cared to examine.

“So,” Greg said, leaning forward, “which one do you think is the Mayor?”

Mycroft didn’t react, but his eyes scanned the room. Greg was astonished at how quickly he assessed and moved on from each person before turning back and reaching into the Timbits box again. “He’s sitting by the window,” Mycroft replied calmly. “Blue jacket, yellow checked shirt.”

Greg raised his eyebrow and glanced casually over. It was a table of three men, two younger than the other. “How do you know it’s him and not one of the other men?” he asked. His coffee was well and truly kicking in now, and he could practically feel his brain speeding up.

“His age – the foreword I read in the hotel indicated he’s been the mayor here for almost two decades and the other men are too young,” Mycroft began. “The taller man in the pink shirt has a security pass around his neck, an unlikely adornment for the Mayor of such a small town, and the other man was working at the airport yesterday. There are no other men in here apart from you, me and my security, and the waitress last night indicated the Mayor was male, so,” Mycroft shrugged.

“Wow,” Greg managed. He finished the last of his coffee. “That’s really amazing, you know that?”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said modestly, smiling down at the almost empty box. “Does that mean I might eat the last Timbit?”

“Absolutely,” Greg said, grinning at Mycroft’s careful pronunciation of the unfamiliar term. “I wish I could read people like that.”

“You could,” Mycroft replied. “All the evidence was available to you.”

“I didn’t read the same information brochure you did,” Greg protested, watching again as Mycroft ate the donut.

“True,” Mycroft said when he was finished, and this time there was a definite mischievous spark to his eye when he added, “in which case you would have seen the colour photograph of the Mayor. It was most helpful in identifying him.”

Greg stared, open mouthed as Mycroft sat back with a smug expression on his face. “You bastard,” he said admiringly. “We had access to the same resources,” Mycroft murmured.

“Hey!” Greg suddenly realised something. “You took the last Timbit under false pretences.”

“Alas,” Mycroft replied, “your jurisdiction does not extend to Newfoundland.”

Greg realised he was staring again only when Mycroft’s eyebrow lifted once more. Was the man flirting with him? Because earlier he had the distinct impression that Mycroft disapproved of something, and yet here they were, both having admitted relationships with men and making flirtier comments than any of Greg’s straight mates or colleagues would. Not that he’d sat and shot the breeze much lately. Maybe it was just him, then.

“Nope,” Greg said. “When we get back to Texas, though, just watch out.”

Something passed over Mycroft’s face at that, and he smiled tightly. The open expression was gone, and Greg was sure he was now seeing the public relations face Mycroft used when he wanted to hide his reaction. The change was surprisingly fast, and it took a second for Greg to catch up. He felt disappointment settle in his gut as he realise their light exchange was over.

“Shall we continue?” Mycroft said. “I spoke to the receptionist this morning, and she assured me several stores might meet our needs.”

“Right,” Greg said. “D’you remember what they’re called?”

Mycroft looked pained as he answered, “There is a SportsChek, a Walmart, and a Mark’s Warehouse in Gander. While their quality may vary, each should have sufficient stock for us to purchase what we might need for,” Mycroft sighed, “hiking.”

“Excellent,” Greg said, pushing aside his desire to ask what was wrong. “Well, what’s closest?”

“Walmart,” Mycroft said, wrinkling his nose, “though from my understanding, they will be the lowest quality.”

“Probably,” Greg shrugged, “but they’ll get us through.” He tried a grin, willing Mycroft to relax again. They were having an alright time, weren’t they? They had been, until something had happened. He hoped he wasn’t pushing too hard. “Listen, you don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft said. His smile softened a little. “Shall we?”

“Sure,” Greg said. He bought another box of Timbits on the way out, holding them out to Mycroft again, hoping the peace offering would continue to smooth their conversation. It worked, of sorts, and they exchanged small talk on the way to Walmart, Greg still very aware of the security man trailing behind them. It wasn’t the same but they were getting there, Greg thought. He just had to be patient. There was a whole lot of something driving Mycroft, and he was more and more curious to find out what made this fascinating man tick.

As they arrived at Walmart, Mycroft’s pace slowed. From the mildly horrified look of someone who has never shopped at this level of retail, Greg assumed Mycroft didn’t even know Walmart existed, let alone had actually shopped there.

“Come on,” he said. “Menswear is this way.”

Mycroft had faltered, and now he was a step behind Greg. “Are you sure,” he began, before Greg slowed to match him.

“I know it’s nowhere near as fancy as your stuff, which I bet is tailored,” Greg said, “but it’s here, and we have no idea how much time we have, so…”

“‘We might as well explore’,” Mycroft said faintly.

“Yep,” Greg replied, recognising his own words from their earlier conversation. He took off his jacket and shrugged on a plaid shirt over his t-shirt. “What do you think?”

“Are you attempting to blend in with the locals?” Mycroft asked. His voice was tactful but his eye still bore remnants of the horror from earlier.

“Maybe,” Greg said. He wrinkled his nose at himself in the mirror. “I look like a lumberjack.” He took off the plaid shirt, saying, “Why don’t you have a look, see if there’s anything you like?” Mycroft shot him a glance that made it clear he didn’t need to look around to know the answer to that question. “Alright, if there’s something you can tolerate for a couple of days.”

“Very well,” Mycroft managed. He ventured away, and Greg watched him gingerly feel the material of a shirt, shuddering at the fabric.

Without too much agonising, Greg found himself two pairs of jeans – one black, one blue – a couple of t-shirts and a jacket. He was ready to head over to the shoe department when he ran into Mycroft, gingerly holding a pair of trousers and two plain white shirts.

“Okay, d’you want to try them on?” Greg asked.

Mycroft looked at him with wide eyes.

“Not here,” Greg said. He pointed. “There are change rooms over there.”

Mycroft nodded and disappeared for a few moments. When he returned it was with a decidedly uncomfortable look about him. “They will suffice,” he said quietly.

“Are you sure?” Greg asked.

Mycroft hesitated. “The trousers are…considerably more generous than I require,” he said. “The length is acceptable, however they are less fitted than I usually direct my tailor.”

Greg translated in his head. “Too loose?” Mycroft nodded. “Okay, why don’t you try these?” He scanned the rails, finding some skinny cut jeans instead. “They’re designed to fit closer but with the same length.” Without asking, he grabbed a jacket too. “And see if this is the right length for your arms. It’s probably going to be cool at night, you’ll need something heavier than just a shirt.”

He didn’t comment on the shirt; Mycroft was out of his comfort zone enough with the jeans, and he probably reached for something vaguely familiar there.

“Better?” Greg asked when Mycroft returned.

“Better,” Mycroft admitted. Greg convinced him to pick up two pairs of the trousers before they moved on.

“Okay, ready to find some boots?” Greg asked.

“If I must,” Mycroft replied.

Greg stopped, glancing back at him. His face was neutral, but the set of his shoulders and the way he was holding the clothes he’d selected broadcast his discomfort as loud as if he’d been shouting it.

“This isn’t meant to be torture,” Greg said, a wave of guilt flowing through him again. “We don’t have to keep going, we can just…not.” He couldn’t really think of an alternative, but the idea of Mycroft doing this despite hating every second didn’t seem fair at all.

Mycroft had stopped too, and his lips were pressed together. His eyes were searching Greg’s face, and when he finally spoke it was quieter than Greg had anticipated. “You asked what I did last night,” he said.

“Yes?” Greg replied. He assumed Mycroft was going somewhere with this.

“Nothing,” Mycroft replied simply.

“Nothing?” Greg echoed.

Mycroft nodded. “Apart from our time on the plane, I don’t remember the last time I sat down without work to do. It was…unsettling. I had time to reflect on decisions made,” he hesitated for a moment, “and opportunities lost.”

Greg nodded, his heart irrationally beating faster. From the stilted way Mycroft was speaking, it was clear this was difficult for him. As earlier, Greg had the distinct impression he was gaining a glimpse into Mycroft’s inner workings, and he didn’t want to jolt them out of the moment.

“If I decline your offer to explore this town,” Mycroft continued, “I would have no idea what to do with myself for the indeterminate number of hours until we depart.”

“So I’m a backup plan, then?” Greg asked with a smile. He was happy to be Mr. Backup, if it meant spending more time with Mycroft and he was about to say so when he registered at Mycroft’s expression. Jeez, you’d think he’d have learned about making jokes by now, he thought, as Mycroft’s eyes went wide.

“Not at all,” Mycroft said. “My solitude merely gave me time to reflect on where I have found myself and the opportunities this unexpected experience might offer. While I might otherwise have chosen to sit quietly on my own, I realised I would prefer to spend that time with someone.”

“Me specifically,” Greg asked before he could stop himself, “or anyone?”

Mycroft looked at him in exasperation. “You specifically,” he admitted, the flush returning with a vengeance. “I find your company far superior to my own.”

“Even if I make you buy cheap hiking boots?” Greg joked over the thumping of his heart.

“The price of company,” Mycroft murmured, but there was a theatrical edge to his tone.

Greg gave a shout of laughter, joy pulsing though him at this insight into Mycroft. “Alright then,” he said, “let’s choose ourselves some questionably waterproof hiking boots, then.”


	7. Chapter 7

An hour later, Greg sat on his bed, tying his laces as he waited for Mycroft. He was still shifting a little, getting used to the feeling of his new clothes, none of which fit exceptionally well, even by his low standards. He’d had to roll up the cuffs of his jeans and the sleeves of his t-shirt were longer than he would have liked, but for short notice and not that much money, it would do him.

He’d picked up a packet of blister plasters and a few pairs of thicker socks, pushing Mycroft to do the same. They were both wearing new shoes, and Mycroft was definitely not used to buying off the rack. Some level of discomfort was a given. Right now he was changing in the bathroom, and Greg couldn’t stop himself glancing at the door every few seconds. When the handle turned but the door didn’t open, his heart thumped.

“Alright?” Greg called brightly.

For a single long held breath, nothing happened. Finally, Mycroft appeared, tugging self-consciously at the cuff of his shirt where it sat higher on his wrist than it really should. The buttons were still open, and he frowned, studiously avoiding Greg’s eyes.

“Need a hand?” Greg asked. “Did you want to roll the sleeves up?”

“No,” Mycroft said firmly. “I am used to fixing cufflinks, not buttons.” He pursed his lips before extending one wrist to Greg, still not meeting his eyes. His shoulders were tight again, Greg noticed. He really was pushing himself to do this.

“Sure,” Greg said, stepping closer. “How’s the rest fit?” He concentrated on getting the stiff new buttons into their buttonholes, ignoring the soft warm skin just beneath his fingers, or the long legs encased in skinny jeans just below.

“As well as can be expected,” Mycroft replied uncomfortably. “Thank you.”

Greg nodded, stepping back. Mycroft laced his shoes, wincing at the pull of the synthetic material. When he stood he shifted his weight, his face showing the unfamiliarity of the high sided boots.

“I’ve bought some plasters,” Greg said, holding up the packet before slipping them into his pocket. “So let me know if you feel the start of a blister.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft said sarcastically. “Blisters are expected, are they?” He slipped on his jacket, leaving the front open.

Greg paused, raising one eyebrow. “What happened to you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft said.

Greg looked at him levelly, trying to decide if he was going to call it out or not. Mycroft was clearly out of sorts, and Greg didn’t want to antagonise him – but it would be singularly unpleasant to walk with someone snarking at him the whole way.

“You were fine before, and now you’ve come out of the bathroom in a terrible mood,” Greg said, crossing his arms. “So, what gives?”

Mycroft looked at him with the now familiar lips pressed together than Greg was learning meant, ‘I’ve realised something but I’m not sure if I want to say or not.’

“I am unaccustomed to seeing myself in casual attire,” he admitted. “I’m not sure how comfortable I am with…this.”

“We can take it back if it doesn’t fit,” Greg said, looking again. “Although I don’t think you’ll get anything much better, to be honest.”

“Not the physical comfort,” Mycroft corrected him. “I am not sure I’m comfortable with my appearance in…this.” He used one hand to indicate himself. He seemed equally uncomfortable expressing it in so many words, Greg realised.

“Really?” Greg said. He took a step back and deliberately raked his eyes over Mycroft. Skinny jeans only emphasised his long legs, even with the bottoms a shade too short. While the jacket was too big around the torso, he’d been wise enough to pick a slim fit shirt, and it looked great where the jacket was open. He firmly stopped himself thinking what lay beneath the fabric.

“You look fine,” Greg said finally. Understatement of the year, really. He hesitated, then added, “you could probably ditch the jacket if you’d rather wear a suit jacket?”

The idea made Mycroft visibly blanch. “No, thank you,” he said formally.

“Okay,” Greg replied, holding in a smile. “Well, I mean, the jacket’s a bit big, but the sleeves fit.” He shrugged. “Considering we’re probably not going to run into any diplomats or royalty of any description, I think you look fine.”

Mycroft shot him an unamused look. “Presentation is important regardless of your projected company,” he said.

“Noted,” Greg replied. “Anyway, should we go?”

Mycroft sighed, and for a second Greg thought he might decline. But he caught Greg’s eyes, hesitated, and nodded. “I suppose it would be best,” he said.

“I thought we could just walk through the town for a bit,” Greg said. “Find something for lunch maybe. I’ve seen a few things that could be interesting. Or we could start at the aviation museum if you’d rather?”

“Either is fine,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg considered as they walked downstairs. “Let’s start at the museum,” he said. Mycroft would probably be more comfortable easing into the idea of being out in public while dressed as they were. “We’ll be closer to home if our boots start rubbing. And I’m pretty sure they have a café.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft agreed.

+++

“How are your boots?” Greg asked, zipping up his jacket.

Mycroft considered before answering, a rhythm Greg was becoming used to. “I wouldn’t use the term ‘comfortable’,” he said, “but I would be able to continue walking if you would like.”

Greg grinned. “Even after the museum?”

“Even so,” Mycroft agreed. “We did sit for lunch, and the rest was rejuvenating.”

“It’s a bit windy,” Greg said, “but I reckon we’ll be okay getting by without too much rain.”

Mycroft looked at him doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

“No, but I did ask the woman at the café,” Greg protested. When Mycroft relaxed a little, Greg asked, “Do you think Dave’s having a good time?”

“Dave?” Mycroft repeated. “Do you mean David?” he glanced behind him. “The security guard?”

“Yeah,” Greg grinned. “Introduced myself this morning. Thought things might be easier if we knew each other’s name. Not sure he’s warmed to me, though.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed with a smile. “Although to be fair, he’s not warmed to me either.”

Greg grinned. “Ah well,” he said. “He’s good at the security bit, right?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. “All our security personnel are highly trained.”

“Of course they are,” Greg said. “Anyway, I saw on the map there was a lake over that way. Shouldn’t be too far?”

“Cobb’s Pond,” Mycroft said immediately. “I can direct us there, if you wish.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Greg said.

They walked in silence for a few moments, until a car pulled up in front of them. “Hello,” the driver said, waving at them. “Where’s you headed? Can I give you folks a lift?”

Greg glanced at Mycroft, who looked aghast at the idea. “Sure,” he said. “Hang on, though, our friend’s lagging a bit.”

He turned, waving to the security man hovering unobtrusively behind them. “Come on, Dave!” He kept waving until Dave joined them, then he climbed in the front seat without asking, leaving Mycroft and his security man to settle in the back. “Cobb’s Pond, that’d be great, thanks.”

“You from off that plane?” the woman asked.

“We are,” Greg replied. “Hope we’re not here too long, but everyone’s been really nice.”

“Of course they have, m’love,” she said, pulling into the gravel patch that passed for a parking lot for the Pond. “This is Newfoundland.”

“Cheers,” Greg said, and they waved as she took off. “Thanks, Dave,” he said, grinning at the security guy. “Thought a two minute drive might be better than an hour’s walk, especially in this weather.”

“Next time, the security decisions are mine to make,” Dave answered without a smile. He turned, nodded to Mycroft, and moved away, re-establishing the distance he’d kept all day. Close enough to be security, far enough to ensure Greg and Mycroft could speak privately.

“Not big on spontaneity, is he?” Greg murmured as they made their way to the water. “Hey, this is nice.”

“I don’t hire security people for their spontaneous nature,” Mycroft said. He hesitated. “Much as I appreciated the lift, I must point out that my security is, in fact, in his hands.” His eyes were apologetic. “Things might be smoother if security decisions were left up to him.”

“Sure,” Greg said. “Consider me reprimanded.”

“I apologise,” Mycroft said. “My personal security can be inconvenient.”

He was going to continue, but Greg put one hand on his arm. “Honestly, it’s fine.”

Mycroft looked at him, and Greg was suddenly very aware of the warmth beneath his hand. “Someone once told me that only people trying to convince someone that a lie is true start a sentence with, ‘honestly’,” Mycroft said. He held Greg’s eyes, his uncertainty slowly fading as Greg poured warmth and acceptance into their shared gaze. It was replaced by something more like confusion, and Greg once again wondered what that was about. Every time they seemed to get somewhere, Mycroft looked confused. He really did need to ask him about that.

When Mycroft finally smiled, Greg spoke.

“Ah,” Greg said warmly, allowing his hand to slip from Mycroft’s forearm. “You caught me.”

It had taken a lot to hold that look. He had to temper what he felt, allowing just a small amount of his affection through, enough to reassure Mycroft that they were fine. Things were progressing a little, he hoped, and he was anxious to keep the awkwardness to a minimum. He thought he might have been working Mycroft out just a little bit, and it was fascinating. For all his outward trappings of power, he was uncomfortable socially and Greg was learning he needed time to think about how he would answer questions. He was funny, though, and considering how far Greg had pushed him already this trip, a remarkably good sport.

There was no doubt about it, Greg was falling for this guy.

Without speaking again, they began following the path around the lake. “I wanted to apologise, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly. “For my poor mood this morning after we returned to the hotel to dress. Without your intervention I fear I would not have left the hotel room.”

“No problem,” Greg said. He had a feeling there was more to that than he’d interpreted. Glancing over, he could see Mycroft frowning, a definite sign that he was thinking. Give him some space, Greg reminded himself. A few moments passed, gravel crunching quietly underfoot, the wind rustling the reeds on the edge of the lake. They passed a few people walking dogs, and each greeted them cheerfully, but Mycroft didn’t speak until they rounded a corner.

“I am not generally someone who embraces change,” Mycroft said slowly. “My life is highly organized and I rarely divert from my schedule. Our arrival here forced me to reconsider that model.” He glanced sideways as though wanting to add something, but instead pressed his lips together.

Greg couldn’t believe how much he wanted to know what Mycroft was _not_ saying.

“You couldn’t work on the plane,” Greg remembered. He paused a second, then added a little tentatively, “You said you don’t really play piano any more. Was there something that made you stop?”

“Not particularly,” Mycroft said. He paused before adding, “I find it difficult to pass the time without some quantifiable benefit.”

“Right,” Greg said. “Well if we can find a piano and a guitar you can teach me some Ludov…whatever that guy’s name is.”

“Ludovico Einaudi,” Mycroft replied automatically. He glanced over at Greg. “You remembered.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, raising his eyebrow. “It was only yesterday.”

Mycroft didn’t reply, but Greg realised he was surprised. Surprised that someone remembered a conversation from one day ago? A wave of empathy rolled through him. Who was he ever talking to, that nobody even paid enough attention to what he said to remember something so basic? He blinked, almost missing what Mycroft said next.

“_Si je me souviens bien, vous parlez français_.”

“_Oui_,” Greg replied automatically. “_Je fais_.” He grimaced, and continued in rusty French, “It’s been a long time since I had a conversation, though.”

“Would your father be pleased at your French?” Mycroft asked, the words flowing seamlessly from his tongue.

_Jesus, Greg, don’t think about his tongue._

“He’d say my accent was terrible,” Greg said. “Christ, your accent is perfect. My dad would be impressed.”

“I have an ear for languages,” Mycroft replied modestly. He hesitated before asking, “Your father – is he living in London?”

“He passed away right after I entered the Police Academy,” Greg said. A pang hit him, as it always did when he spoke of his father. Their relationship hadn’t been easy, but he knew his dad did his best.

“_Je suis désolé_,” Mycroft murmured.

“It was a long time ago,” Greg replied in French, with his usual shrug.

Mycroft turned his head, regarding Greg for a moment before saying, “Time might ease the sharp pain, but grief is a pain that endures.”

Greg blinked at him, taking a moment to check his translation. “That sounds much better in French,” he said in English.

“Many things do,” Mycroft replied, following the transition back to English. “I find it one of the fascinations of foreign languages. Each has its own subtleties, and some concepts are far easier to express in another language.”

“I agree,” Greg said. He jogged ahead a couple of steps, turning to walk backwards so he could face Mycroft. “Hi,” he signed, grinning. “We’re lucky the people here are nice and it’s not raining, or we’d have to stay inside the whole time.”

Mycroft’s face changed from surprise to confusion to recognition as Greg finished. To Greg’s enormous surprise, he raised his hands and signed carefully, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Do you have a pen so we can write?”

“Nice,” Greg signed, grinning. “Where did you learn?” He deliberately kept his signs slow, exaggerating his facial expressions to convey meaning.

Mycroft frowned. “I learned…” he began, then paused. Carefully, he switched to fingerspelling. “W-H-E-N I W-A-S Y-O-U-N-G-E-R,” he said.

“Why?” Greg asked. When Mycroft looked blank, Greg spelled, “W-H-Y?”

Before he could reply, Mycroft reached out, grabbing Greg’s upper arm. “Careful,” he said. “The path curves here.”

“Let’s sit down,” Greg signed, pointing to a bench seat.

Mycroft nodded, concentrating on something. He raised his hands and Greg remembered he’d asked a question. It was hard to pay attention with long fingers dancing elegantly in the air before him, but his brain tracked the spelling almost automatically.

“M-Y B-R-O-T-H-E-R I-S A-N A-D-D-I-C-T,” he spelled carefully. “H-I-S D-E-A-L-E-R W-A-S D-E-A-F.”

“Wait,” Greg said, frowning. “Your brother’s an addict and his dealer was _deaf_?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, dropping his hands with relief. “Before I explain further, I must apologise for my stilted signing.”

“It was fine,” Greg said. “You don’t need to explain. I’m surprised you knew any BSL, actually.”

“I didn’t follow what you said initially,” Mycroft admitted. “But I know enough to communicate basic needs, as you could see.”

“We’re lucky the people here are nice and it’s not raining, or we’d have to stay inside the whole time,” Greg repeated.

“Ah,” Mycroft said. He looked down at his hands. “My parents are…ineffective,” he said carefully. “Without intervention, my brother would…decline. I found the most effective way to monitor him was to ensure his dealer was amenable to communicate with me when he sought out drugs.” He gave a wry smile. “My BSL vocabulary is unusual, born of necessity.”

Greg read between the lines. “Jesus,” he muttered. “That’s a lot on you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft shrugged. “He’s my brother,” he said quietly.

Greg said, “His name’s…Sherlock?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He looked mildly surprised again, and Greg cursed the people who’d conditioned him to expect his words to be forgotten so quickly.

“Still, it can’t be easy,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft was silent for a long while. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”

Impulsively, Greg put one hand on Mycroft’s knee to comfort him. He left it there for a moment, and when Mycroft didn’t move, carefully pulled away again. He had no idea if it was actually comforting, but it was all he could think of right now.

“So,” Greg said, “I don’t want you to think you’ve wasted your time here. If you wanted a quantifiable benefit from this time, I could teach you some BSL. What I remember, at least.”

Mycroft looked at him carefully, and Greg had the impression he was being analysed somehow. “Despite my usual requirement for such, I’m finding myself enjoying the change.”

“Bet you didn’t think you’d be saying that today,” Greg said.

“No,” Mycroft said with such a tone of mild surprise that Greg broke up laughing. A startled moment, and Mycroft’s face relaxed into a smile. “I’m not sure I ever expected to make that statement.”

Greg’s laugh tailed off, and he eased around, looking out over the water. It was peaceful sitting here, the atmosphere between them comfortable and quiet, only the wind breaking the silence. He couldn’t help thinking again about the odd reactions to some of the comments or actions he made. They’d both shared enough for him to know it wasn’t the awkwardness of a straight man not knowing how to deal with another man’s interest in him. Greg was familiar with that, and it wasn’t the same. There was something else going on, and he really did have to try and find a way into that conversation. Tonight over dinner, perhaps.

Idly, he glanced sideways. Mycroft was staring out over the water, an air of discomfort about him, as though he wasn’t quite sure how to do this. Greg doubted ‘sitting on a bench looking over the water’ was high on the man’s to-do list, but he seemed content enough. He wondered what Mycroft was thinking about. Was he wishing Greg would leave him alone? Perhaps Greg should suggest they have some time apart later this afternoon. Assuming he’d want to have dinner together later, that was. Jeez, Greg was already assuming they’d do that together. He really needed to pull that back a bit, at least until he figured out what was confusing Mycroft about him.


	8. Chapter 8

Slowly the sun sank lower, and as the air began to cool and clouds slowly gathered, Greg shifted. “We should probably head back,” he murmured. He looked at his watch. “It might take us a while to get back and I have no idea when it’ll get dark.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied.

“How’re your boots?” Greg asked, looking down.

“Fine, thank you.”

They both stood, continuing around the pond in a silence more comfortable than Greg anticipated. Mycroft seemed to have relaxed as they sat by the water, his whole posture less uptight. Greg could see Mycroft was thinking, so he contented himself with recalling what they’d seen at the museum. The section about what happened in September 2001 had been fascinating; it really was remarkable how kind the people here had been, and still were, if their experience was anything to go by.

“I’ll follow you again,” Greg murmured as they reached the road.

Mycroft nodded, obviously preoccupied. They walked together, their footsteps oddly quiet on the concrete. Dark clouds were collecting now, and Greg hoped they’d make it back before the inevitable rain started.

“My apologies,” Mycroft said suddenly as they turned onto a residential street. “I became distracted.”

“No problem,” Greg said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Conversation and a half we had back there.”

“Yes,” Mycroft mused. “I am finding our experience here is challenging my views.”

A shot of adrenaline pulsed through Greg at Mycroft’s use of ‘our’.

“Oh?” Greg managed. Mycroft was silent for long enough that Greg added, “I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to…”

“Again, I apologise,” Mycroft said. “Introspection is not my natural milieu, and I find myself considering my words quite carefully.”

“Take your time,” Greg said. “Better to think about it and find the right words.”

Mycroft looked at him in surprise. “Thank you,” he said. “As I said earlier, change is not something with which I am comfortable.”

“Right,” Greg replied.

“Since we arrived, you have…encouraged me to make choices I would not have otherwise made,” Mycroft said.

“And that’s a good thing?” Greg said with a forced smile. He couldn’t tell from Mycroft’s expression if he was happy about what he was saying. Had Greg pushed too hard? Was that why he was so…the way he was, sometimes?

Mycroft looked at him. “I think it is,” he said slowly. “I didn’t mean to imply…” he took a deep breath. “While I admittedly feel a level of discomfort at the activities in which we have taken part, I must also confess to having enjoyed them more than I had anticipated.”

Greg rolled the answer around in his head, wringing out as much meaning as he could. “So you’re glad I’ve dragged you around so much?” he said.

“In summary, yes,” Mycroft replied. He glanced over. “Even this conversation is beyond my usual comfort zone.”

“What, just chatting like this?” Greg asked in surprise.

“Casual conversation with someone I met only the previous day,” Mycroft explained. “And unvetted by my security detail, at that.”

“Good thing I’m so boring,” Greg replied with a grin and a skip of his heart.

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied immediately. “In actual fact, had you not been interesting enough on the plane, my security would have encouraged you to find an alternative seat.”

“Really?” Greg replied. His heart thudded at the thought.

Mycroft thought again. “It has been a long time since someone initiated a conversation with me without a political agenda,” he admitted. “It was refreshing.”

“Thanks,” Greg murmured. This conversation was far more personal than a ‘casual chat’ – would Mycroft explain what was going on with him? The strength of his desire to know was surprising, and he forced himself to appear as calm as possible.

“And while I do not wish to ever purchase clothing from Walmart again,” Mycroft said, shuddering and tugging at his sleeves, “the subsequent exploration of Gander has been…”

“Worth it?” Greg asked, smirking.

“I’m not sure entirely,” Mycroft said, but he was smiling. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

“So,” Greg said, “If you’d’ve landed and you could have done, would you really have worked the whole time?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied seriously. “Given our diversion, the reason for my flight to Dallas will likely be moot by the time we arrive. My lack of input will be…inconvenient.”

“So what’ll happen?” Greg asked. “In a general kind of way,” he said hastily when Mycroft raised one eyebrow in amusement.

“Someone else will handle it,” Mycroft said after a moment.

“So, doesn’t that mean you don’t _have_ to work?” Greg asked. “I mean, hypothetically.”

Mycroft was quiet was so long Greg wondered if he’d said something inadvertently offensive. “I am highly trained, highly skilled…in specific situations, my experience is…” Mycroft began, and Greg thought he sounded like he was going to continue, but he didn’t.

“So if someone else has dealt with this particular…thing,” Greg said, feeling as though he was working in the dark, “will there be fallout? I mean, will it cause more work for you since you weren’t there?”

Mycroft looked at him. “Probably not,” he said slowly. “Although the longer term repercussions might not be evident for a considerable time.”

Greg blinked. “But there won’t be a war or anything,” he said.

“No,” Mycroft said. “Not this time,” he said wryly.

Greg nodded. “Okay, so hypothetically,” he said, “and I’m not saying this would be a good thing, but if you, I dunno, _died_ here,” Mycroft raised one eyebrow again, “what would happen?”

“Well I’m sure David would be devastated,” Mycroft replied dryly. “Given it would be a failure on his part to protect me.”

“You know what I mean,” Greg said. “Nobody lives forever, what happens when you retire, or fall into a pond or something?”

“Fall into a pond?” Mycroft protested, but he was smiling a little. The smile faded as he considered the question, and his face grew contemplative. “The Empire will endure,” he said with resignation. “I suppose, when the bigger picture is examined, my contribution will be…negligible.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered. “That’s a positive outlook you’ve got there.”

“I believe you’ve already commented on my lack of optimism,” Mycroft told him.

“Yes,” Greg said. Should he take the risk? “The thing about optimism is, though,” he said, “is it can be a bit contagious.”

“Are you implying I should continue in your company in order to alter my outlook?” Mycroft asked, looking at him in surprise.

“I’m just saying, we’re stuck here anyway,” Greg replied. “And it could be a,” he tried to hold in his smile, but it was impossible, “quantifiable benefit.”

“I’m not sure how you quantify optimism,” Mycroft said, suppressing a smile.

“I’m sure we could figure it out.” The answer slipped out before Greg could stop it, the flirty tone rising unmistakably.

Mycroft looked at him, his own smirk across his face. They held each other’s eyes for a long moment, and Greg wondered for a breathless moment what Mycroft was thinking. Everything receded as the grey eyes held his, and Greg felt something pool heavy in his veins as the atmosphere grew thick between them.

Holy shit, he thought to himself, swallowing. He wasn’t going to break this moment, and as he watched, Mycroft’s eyes widened, and this time when the confusion clouded them, he finally spoke, the words breathless and tripping over each other.

“You should call your wife.”

Greg blinked. “My wife?” he said. The moment was shattered, partly by the words spoken, his own confusion, Mycroft’s newly closed expression. He wasn’t certain, but Greg was fairly sure a shard of pain flashed in Mycroft’s eyes before they turned away from him.

Without thinking, he reached out, grabbing Mycroft’s arm. “Wait…my _wife_? What do you mean?”

“Adrienne,” Mycroft said. “She’s in hospital in Dallas, surely you remember?”

“Oh…” Greg breathed, his fingers slackening on Mycroft’s arm as he realised what had happened. How the hell had he managed to explain it so badly? As he stood blinking, Mycroft pulled his arm away and turned to leave.

“No, wait,” Greg said, but before he could follow, Dave was beside him, a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“I believe Mr. Holmes has made himself clear,” Dave rumbled quietly.

“She’s not my wife!” Greg blurted loudly. It was all he could think of to stop Mycroft, whose long legs had already carried him half a dozen metres away. “She’s my step-daughter! Well, sort of…look, can I just explain this? Please?” To his relief, Mycroft had stopped at his first outburst, and the rest of his words, delivered in the same panicked tone, were certainly loud enough to be heard.

His heart was in his mouth as he waited for Mycroft to decide. Would he turn around or continue walking? The seconds seemed to stretch out forever. Please, let me explain, Greg thought, willing Mycroft to give him the chance.

Finally, Mycroft turned, nodding to Dave. “Thank you, David,” he said. “I believe you might stand down.”

The hand on Greg’s shoulder remained a shade longer than it needed to, a silent reminder to Greg that he was now on thin ice. He didn’t turn to acknowledge the man as he moved away; his eyes were locked on Mycroft’s as they studied him. The lack of emotion was startling, and Greg had a sudden realisation that this was Professional Mycroft he was seeing.

Was this what he was like at work? Jesus. Greg swallowed hard.

“I believe you offered to explain,” Mycroft said, his voice as stiff as his posture had become. 

“Adrienne is my step-daughter,” Greg repeated. “Sort of. Her mother and I met in Dallas. I’d been seconded over there to help with a training course. Claudine was working at the coffee place down the street.” He snorted at the memory. “Looking back, she was pretty full-on. She loved the hair, loved the accent, loved a man in uniform. About all she didn’t love was me, as it turned out. Me and Addie.” Greg looked away, remembering. “I applied to stay in Dallas for another year almost right away. Moved in with her and Addie. She was seventeen then, a nice kid but naïve. Didn’t take long to see things weren’t going to work out between Claudine and I, but I didn’t think she’d bail on us both.”

“Bail on you?” Mycroft asked, obviously unfamiliar with the term.

“She walked out. Just…left. Email address on the table ‘in case we needed her’. I came home one day from work and she was gone.” He shrugged, the pain of it long erased by anger and his preoccupation with helping Addie through her own emotions. “By that stage Addie was not quite eighteen and pregnant. She would have ended up in a foster home if I’d left, so I decided to stay until my secondment was over. By then she’d be legally adult, and we could figure something out.”

“You and she bonded,” Mycroft said, though it was more question than statement.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “She’s a good kid. The opposite of her mother in a lot of ways…fell in with an absolute bell-end of a boy, the one I was telling you about. Knocked her up then split. Broke her heart, but he kept coming back, angling for money. When he figured out I wasn’t her legal guardian, he was blackmailing us, threatening to tell the authorities. We thought we were finally rid of him, now that she’s eighteen.”

“He returned, I gather,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg nodded. “I was called back to London to give evidence in a trial. Lewis must’ve heard I was gone…waited ‘til Addie was on her own and beat the hell out of her, from what I heard.”

Mycroft was quiet for a long time. Greg was still anxious, feeling his chest tense as he tried to breathe normally. He hadn’t explained the whole saga to anybody, fearful of anyone finding out and the potential repercussions. The only person who knew it all was Delilah, and that was mostly from Addie.

“And he’s no longer a threat?” Mycroft asked.

“No,” Greg said. “Delilah told me he’s gone. Dead. Thank God,” Greg said, without a hint of apology in his voice for the sentiment. If anyone deserved such a heartless send-off it was Lewis.

“And the baby is healthy,” Mycroft asked. He was reviewing the facts and confirming them, Greg realised.

“Intensive care for a while, I think just because she’s so tiny. But fine.”

“They have people around them,” Mycroft said, carefully neutral in his tone.

“Delilah’s like a grandmother to us both,” Greg said, a lump forming in his throat thinking about her. “Took us under her wing, pretty much.” He laughed, just catching it before it turned into a sob. “She’ll probably move in when Addie goes home, help out with the baby and stuff.” A deep breath, a reminder that they’d be okay, now, and he smiled a weak smile. “She’ll take care of the day to day stuff when I’m back in London.”

“And that would be when?” Mycroft asked.

“Another few months,” Greg said. “It’s gonna be a bit harder now with Addie’s injuries, but we’ve built her a family. She’ll be okay. She’s a tough cookie. And I’ll be able to send money, so she won’t have to worry about that.”

Greg stopped, aware he was starting to babble. He’d lost track and now he focused again on Mycroft. His head was tilted as though he was weighing Greg’s words for sincerity, eyes probing. The moments stretched long, and Greg made himself remain quiet. He didn’t know how Mycroft felt about the mix up – was he angry? Upset? Humiliated?

It was fairly clear to Greg that the confusion stemmed from the flirty conversations they were having jarring with Mycroft’s belief he was married. Did he really think Greg would cheat on his wife? Hopefully that was another point of confusion for Mycroft. He liked to think he was a pretty decent guy, and from what he could see Mycroft was a good judge of behaviour. But nothing he could say would sway Mycroft, so he just waited.

“Thank you for clearing up that misunderstanding,” Mycroft said quietly. “I apologise if my behaviour has been unusual.”

“No, it’s fine,” Greg said, relief flowing through him. “God, how did I manage to explain without explaining? I’m so sorry, that must have been confusing.”

He would have continued had Mycroft not laid a hesitant hand on his arm. The mirroring of their conversation was not lost on Greg, whose breath had been stolen by the touch. “Honestly,” he said, with a small smile, “it’s fine.”

“Pretty sure that’s my line,” Greg said. “And since we’re talking,” he hesitated, committed to continuing without being completely sure it was a good idea, “was the confusion because you thought I was prepared to cheat on my wife with you?”

Mycroft coloured, but nodded. “I was aware she had just given birth in traumatic circumstances while you were in London,” he reminded Greg.

“Jesus, you must have thought me the worst kind of rake,” Greg muttered.

“And yet nothing in your general behaviour or actions upheld that view,” Mycroft murmured.

“Good,” Greg said firmly. “Because cheating is absolutely not my game. Ever.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Do I detect a personal reason for such vehemence?”

“My ex-wife believed in sharing the love,” Greg said dryly. “With everyone except me, it turned out.”

“My apologies,” Mycroft murmured.

“And can I ask,” Greg said, hoping their newly established policy of open admission would continue, “if you were uncomfortable with my flirting with you? Because I was, but I can stop if you’d rather.” He smiled, hoping his pounding heart wasn’t too visible in his expression. “I’m enjoying your company, and I’d rather not have to room with Dave.”

“I’m sure the feeling there is mutual,” Mycroft murmured through a fierce blush. He cleared his throat, adding uncomfortably, “I am not used to being…flirted with. It is unfamiliar but not unwelcome.”

Greg grinned. “Good to know. I’ll keep doing it then. Feel free to reciprocate if you’re feeling daring.” He paused, not wanting Mycroft to feel too uncomfortable. “But no pressure. I’m not pushing for anything, I hope that’s clear.”

“It is, thank you,” Mycroft said. “You are very considerate.”

“Ah, you’re only saying that because I’m not cheating on my wife,” Greg said, trying to lighten the mood. With all that unspoken stuff cleared up, he was all for some banter right about now.

“Indeed I am,” Mycroft replied, finally returning Greg’s smile. “I must admit it is a relief to have the air cleared between us.”

It certainly is, Greg thought to himself as they started to walk again. His mind was still full of wonderings about Mycroft, but now they were more exciting – would he flirt back? Would he be interested in the flirting leading somewhere?

Greg had no idea, but he was sure as hell going to try and find out.

His heart skipped a beat as he glanced across to find Mycroft looking at him.

“What?” he asked without thinking.

“I was wondering if you had a preference for our evening meal,” Mycroft said.

“No,” Greg said, ignoring the thrill that shot through him at Mycroft’s assumption they would eat together. “Actually, if you wanted some down time alone, I could go and talk to the receptionist. See if she has any suggestions, have a drink in the bar. Give you an hour or so.”

“The same receptionist who flirted with you last night?” Mycroft asked dryly.

“Oh, I bet that was weird,” Greg replied, grinning.

“You didn’t seem upset by her attentions,” Mycroft said. “And yet you had just told me about Adrienne’s situation.”

“Well, I can’t help if I’m so devilishly handsome,” Greg said dramatically.

“And considerate too,” Mycroft said in the dry tone Greg was coming to appreciate. “How fortunate I am to have such a wonderful companion.”

“Yep,” Greg said. The pulse through him was powerful, and there were a multitude of reasons – Mycroft had kind of agreed with his assessment of himself as handsome; he’d complimented him twice and the way he was looking at Greg now was definitely approaching flirtatious.

Things could be getting interesting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely MUST thank ShesQuackers for her invaluable help with all things Newfoundland for this story (and many other NFLD stories I've been writing lately). So many details are directly from our conversations and I am so grateful for the answers to my 'okay, so imagine this scenario...would that work?' questions. <3

When they arrived back at the hotel, Mycroft held the door for Greg. It was a small gesture, but as he flashed a smile of thanks, Greg’s heart beat a little faster. His mind now flagged the little moments he’d previously dismissed, now that things were more or less out in the open between them, and with each smile or gesture he wondered at the meaning behind it. Probably nothing, he kept telling himself, but the tiny possibility that it _was_ something kept nagging at his mind.

He was still thinking about it when he almost ran into someone at the reception desk.

“Sorry!” he said. “Oh,” he added, recognising the face, “hi again.”

It was the receptionist from the previous day, dressed in street clothes and chatting with the on-duty receptionist.

“Hello,” she said with a wide smile. “Still no news on your flights, I’m afraid.”

“No problem,” Greg said. “Mycroft and I have managed to fill the day.”

“Good to hear,” she replied, flicking a gaze at Mycroft. “And do you have plans this evening?”

“We’re going to find somewhere to eat, then…maybe more football?” Greg said, grinning at Mycroft, offering him an entry into the conversation.

“Or not,” Mycroft replied firmly. “I noticed a piano in the bar, perhaps some music might be in order instead.”

“We could have the football on in the background, though,” Greg said, teasing. “Muted, of course.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that’s exactly what Einaudi had in mind,” he murmured. “Accompanying football matches in a Canadian bar.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Greg replied with a straight face, “I’m sure we could find some ice hockey.” The words were barely out of his mouth before the smile broke over his face. Mycroft’s eyes were resigned as he regarded Greg, though there was an edge of amusement to his exasperation.

“Anyway, we’ll think of something,” Greg said, turning his attention back to the receptionist.

She was looking at him speculatively – actually, she was looking between them with an assessment Greg was familiar with, and he almost predicted her words and the markedly more professional smile she now offered him.

“Well, if you can’t decide, there’s a baby grand in the function room,” she said. “Your boyfriend would be welcome to use that one so he doesn’t disturb the football.”

Greg grinned at her, deliberately not rising to the bait. “Thanks,” he said. “We’ll keep it in mind.” He turned to Mycroft, looking at him significantly. “Come on, let’s go change for dinner.”

Mycroft followed without comment until they were standing outside their room. Dave had followed, and now stood outside his own door, waiting to see them safely inside, and Greg forced himself to hold in his laughter until the door closed behind them.

“Oh my God,” he gasped, the laughter pulling at his sides as he slumped onto his bed, “this place is hilarious.”

“I’m not sure I see the humour,” Mycroft replied. He’d sat in the chair beside his bed, unlacing his boots with a relieved expression.

“That’s two people who’ve assumed we’re together,” Greg said. “I mean, it’s not funny in itself, but I have to say, it’s definitely refreshing for the conversation not to include some derogatory term and a threat of physical violence.” He grinned at Mycroft. “I’m not all that inclined to correct them, really.”

He sat up, wiping tears from his eyes. Glancing at Mycroft, he could see the man sitting upright, his posture straight even by his standards, face carefully blank.

“You okay?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. He’d removed his shoes and socks, replacing the chunky latter with his own finer wool blend. Even so, Greg could see his toes scrunching uncomfortably into the carpet. Once again, he cursed his mouth and its lack of connection to his brain. Carefully, he scooted over, sitting on the edge of Mycroft’s bed. He was close enough that his knees brushed the side of Mycroft’s chair, and from here he could see the lines of tension in his face.

“I said something tactless again, didn’t I?” Greg said quietly. “I’m sorry. I don’t always think, as you probably know by now.”

Mycroft was quiet for a long time. “The people in the world who have a definitive answer as to my…preferences,” he said delicately, his face pale, “number three. Including you and I.” He didn’t look at Greg, but his fingers twisted together in his lap. “Many accusations have been made, over the years, and while none have been confirmed, the language used has been, as you defined it, derogatory.”

Greg swallowed, his body reacting to Mycroft’s admission in a myriad of ways. Faster heart rate, hands damp, eyes wide. Somehow he’d made a very short list indeed, and he had no idea why. And then he’d gone and made a casual comment, dismissing the kind of reaction he’d not bothered to be upset by in years but which was obviously still a very raw and real memory for Mycroft.

“I’m sorry,” Greg said quietly. “That must be awful.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, though his voice was matter of fact. The silence rang for a few minutes. Greg had no idea what to say. He didn’t want to press Mycroft for details, didn’t want to seem voyeuristic, but he did wonder who the third person was. His brother? That would mean he was a virgin, though, and someone as attractive as he was having made it to his age without a single partner was unlikely. A lover, then? Just one, over all those years…his heart ached, either way. Such a lonely existence behind that stiff upper lip.

It was just curiosity, though, and so far into the land of ‘none of your business’ Greg didn’t even try to formulate the question. Instead he just sat in the silence, offering company and an ear, if Mycroft cared to share. It didn’t feel like enough, but it was all he could think of right now.

“I’m assuming you have questions,” Mycroft said finally. He was still looking out the window, but he’d untwisted his fingers, his palms lying flat on his thighs instead. It looked far more formal, as though he was preparing for something unpleasant. When Greg didn’t answer, Mycroft glanced over, grey eyes guarded.

Greg raised one eyebrow, and shrugged. “Nothing important,” he said, deliberately keeping his tone serious. This was not the time for levity, he told himself sternly. Mycroft had obviously trusted him, and for all the difficult conversations they had already shared, this was far more personal.

_Don’t fuck it up._

“Nothing important?” Mycroft repeated. He turned more fully, the surprise in his eyes morphing into an uneasy distrust.

“I could ask questions, if you want,” Greg said, choosing his questions carefully. “But I figure you’ll share what you want to share. What’s important to you.” He watched Mycroft process that before adding, “I don’t know if you need me to say it, but I’m not one for gossip. I won’t be sharing anything we discuss. I’m not a politician, I’m just,” his heart started pounding at this, it felt like a bit of a stretch, “someone trying to be your friend. If you wanted that.”

Mycroft’s eyes were so expressive, Greg thought, drinking in the cascade of emotions they broadcast. Surprise and distrust, confusion, disbelief and finally, perhaps something like acceptance. Before he spoke, fear and determination warred, but the determination must have won out because his words, while tentative, were clear.

“That would be most welcome.”

Greg smiled. Mycroft returned it, more hesitant and still with the edges of his disbelief showing.

“Well, I’d better have a shower,” Greg said. “Do you know anywhere good for us to eat tonight?”

“Having read the town brochure, I can suggest several places,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “Unless you’d prefer to stay here?”

“Sure, we can do that,” Greg replied. He leaned back on the heel of one hand, rubbing his other hand along his jaw. “I should shave, too. Getting a bit itchy.”

Mycroft looked at him, and the movement of his gaze over Greg’s face almost made him shiver. “Are you generally clean-shaven?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “Unless I’m at work for three days straight. That’s not really a preference, though.”

“No,” Mycroft said, his eyes still drifting over Greg’s face. “The relief of shaving after several days’ growth is certainly significant.”

“I like a bit of scruff,” Greg said, “but it’s a fine line between ‘nicely scruffy’ and ‘people think I’m the offender’.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replied, smiling. “Drawback of the job.”

“It is,” Greg replied. “I’m guessing you’re a fan of a close shave?”

This conversation felt far more intimate than he’d been expecting. They were talking about shaving, for God’s sake. Was it really that personal? It certainly felt like it.

“In my office, it is generally considered slovenly to appear with more than one days’ growth,” Mycroft admitted. “Unless cultivating a beard or moustache, in which a neatly groomed appearance is preferential.”

Greg grinned at him. “Can I guess you’re also not a fan of the ginger?”

Mycroft’s eyes pulled sharply to his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re a ginger, aren’t you?” Greg asked, and the flush across his cheeks answered for Mycroft. “Hey, no judgement here on that one.”

“Is it that evident?” Mycroft managed.

Greg shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m quite observant in certain circumstances,” he said, feeling his tone veer back towards more over flirting. “Pale skin, freckles, and you blush like a, well, redhead.” He grinned, nodding at Mycroft’s face. “Exhibit A.”

“Really,” Mycroft said in a strangled tone.

“Plus I helped you do up your cuffs, which are too short, and I definitely spied a tinge of ginger on your forearms,” Greg said, wishing his mouth would stop but unable to stop the descent into what felt like the beginning of some soft porn he’d seen once. “And your chest hair is red, too.”

Mycroft’s hand rose to his throat but stopped short of pulling his collar closed.

“Don’t worry,” Greg grinned. “Most people don’t look that close. Your secret is safe with me.”

The atmosphere was almost too much, and he half regretted going quite so far. Mycroft’s expression was somewhere between horrified and aroused – mouth open, eyes wide, breathing shallower than normal, and Greg wasn’t sure which way things would go in the next moment. He sat still, waiting for Mycroft to move, wondering what Mycroft could see in his own face right now.

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered. He swallowed hard, then pulled his gaze out of the window again.

Greg took the hint, rolling over so he could stand up at the end of the bed, not crowding Mycroft. He’d pushed hard again, and now he needed to give the man some space. Jesus, what was wrong with him? Every time they were getting somewhere he pushed, Mycroft responded, and somehow they ended up just a little further down that road. There was just something about Mycroft, something about that combination of uptight and vulnerable that made Greg want to help him break out of the cage he seemed to only just be realising he was living in. The conversation on the plane, then the new wardrobe, the walks around town, accepting a lift from a stranger…and now they’d just had an intense conversation about Mycroft’s personal life…so Greg decided to flirt like a dog.

Jesus.

_Tone it down, mate._

This time there was no need to break his own record in the bathroom, so Greg took his time. He figured the longer he was in here the longer Mycroft would have to think, which was probably a good thing; they’d been together all day, he probably wanted some down time anyway. Besides, the last thing Greg wanted was to cut himself shaving. He made sure it was a good job, no stray whiskers left under his jaw; he was honest enough to know he wanted to impress Mycroft. A ridiculous thought, he told himself in the shower, the man’s just walked around for a whole day with your unshaven face to look at.

_Plus don’t forget how you woke up this morning._

Might have missed the boat on impressing this one.

Finally, Greg was dressed, his hair done, looking about as good as he did these days. At least his face was getting old enough to go properly with his hair, he thought. The shirt was a good colour, the deep blue setting off his silver hair without making it look just _grey_.

“Did you want to use the bathroom?” Greg asked as he stepped out.

“Yes please,” Mycroft murmured. He hadn’t moved since Greg left; his words had startled the careful frame of fingertips under his chin. A thinking pose, Greg thought as they smiled awkwardly, moving around without speaking until Mycroft disappeared into the bathroom. He hoped whatever Mycroft had been thinking about his brain was okay with the conversation they’d just shared.

Packing his things away, Greg paced restlessly for a few moments. Should he wait for Mycroft? He didn’t want to pressure him, and maybe a few extra moments alone would be what he needed.

“Right,” Greg murmured to himself. He’d take himself down to the bar.

Tearing off a sheet from the complimentary pad of paper, Greg scrawled a note and left it on Mycroft’s pillow. He grabbed his key and wallet and let himself out. It would probably be a good thing for them to each have some time to themselves. Greg felt more and more like he was under some kind of spell, enchanted by Mycroft. A little space would help him find a bit of perspective, especially with how things had changed this afternoon. If they were going to continue their association into friendship – or more – he didn’t want to mess it up. And with their flight potentially resuming at any moment, he’d have to find the line between rushing things and not making himself clear.


	10. Chapter 10

Greg limited himself to one small beer while he was waiting. Some of the football crew were there again; they were drinking at the same pace as last night, and Greg was relieved to realise the bartender was keeping an eye on them. Much as he’d been fine to pull professional rank on the plane, he didn’t want to play bouncer to this lot while they were here, especially if they intended to drink the whole time.

He made small talk with the bartender who had half an eye on the increasingly rowdy group. When Mycroft appeared in the door, Greg drained the last of his beer and nodded to the bartender, leaving him a tip.

“Only got British pounds on me, mate,” he said apologetically.

“Not a problem,” the bartender said. “Tanks very mooch.”

The heavily accented phrase made Greg grin and he made his way over to Mycroft, waiting in the doorway.

“Hi,” he said. Jesus, the man looked great. One of his own suits again, and even Greg (who shopped strictly off the rack and had owned the same ‘good suit’ for at least a decade) could see this suit was tailored less for a professional environment. The slim cut trousers made the most of those legs, and the colour was a far lighter blue than the almost-black he was wearing on the plane.

_JE_-sus.

“Nice suit,” Greg said. The lack of tie – and subsequently open neck – was a surprise, but he didn’t mention it. Given the comment he’d made earlier about noticing Mycroft’s chest hair it was possible quite a lot of agonising quite a lot before deciding against the tie and Greg didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable. Or more uncomfortable, Greg corrected himself. He seemed to be doing that already without even trying.

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured. His eyes met Greg’s easily, and they were much calmer than they had been earlier. More settled, if Greg had to try and describe it. “I hope I did not keep you waiting.”

“Happy to wait,” Greg replied. “Thought you might want a few extra minutes to yourself.” He grinned. “I keep dropping these big conversations on you, I figure you’re the kind of guy who needs to process stuff or your brain might explode.”

“I am,” Mycroft said. He hesitated before adding, “You are very considerate, Greg.”

“Cheers,” Greg replied. “Actually, I used my time well. Got chatting to the bartender, who said there’s a decent bar around the corner. They’ve had quite a bunch in from our flight and they’re planning some kind of local ceremony tomorrow night or the night after.” He frowned, searching for the right words. “A screech-in I think he called it?”

“Screech-in?” Mycroft repeated. He looked wary. “Do you know what it entails?”

“Nope,” Greg replied, grinning. “But it could be fun. And,” he added, “we don’t have to take part. We could just watch. Or plan to watch and change our mind when we get there.”

Mycroft’s gaze was steady as he said, “Somehow I think you added those options more to ease my mind than your own, Greg.”

“I did,” Greg allowed. “So what do you think?”

They started walking across the foyer towards the restaurant.

“Assuming-” Mycroft began, but his eyes was caught by something at reception, and he stopped speaking.

“What?” Greg asked. Mycroft placed one hand on his shoulder and with gentle pressure turned him to look at the reception desk. Ignoring the thrill of Mycroft’s touch, Greg looked.

A huge sign had been stuck to the front of the desk.

“Hurricane warning now in effect for NFLD. All flights grounded until at least Friday.”

Greg swore, glancing at Mycroft. “Well, at least we have some idea,” he said in dismay. There was a sense of relief missed in there, but he didn’t examine it too closely.

“We do,” Mycroft replied.

As they stood there absorbing the news, someone walked past and did a double take. “Greg?” he said.

“Dane!” Greg greeted him with a handshake, explaining to Mycroft, “Dane’s the flight crew team leader on our flight.” He turned back, adding, “This is Mycroft. He was sitting in first class, we got chatting, and then we were allocated roommates.”

“Hi,” Dane said, shaking Mycroft’s hand too. “Sorry about that,” he said, waving at the sign.

“Not your fault, mate,” Greg said immediately. “Can’t be fun for you either.” He frowned. “How’s Sarah? I think she said her kids are in Dallas, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” Dane said. “Everyone’s got something to get back for, haven’t they?”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, with a stab of guilt. He hadn’t thought about Adrienne – or Alexandra – all day. From the look on Mycroft’s face, he could tell what Greg was thinking, and the smile he offered was kind.

“Is it the weather that is stopping our departure, or is the mechanical issue still unable to be fixed?” Mycroft asked.

“Weather,” Dane said, grimacing. “Turned out our ‘serious mechanical failure’ was more of a ‘faulty warning light’.”

“You’re kidding,” Greg gasped. “So we didn’t need to land here after all?”

“Based on what they knew at the time, the pilots had no choice,” Dane said a little defensively. “But no, it doesn’t sound great…keep that to yourself, actually,” Dane said, wincing. “I probably shouldn’t have told you.”

“No problem,” Greg said, glancing at Mycroft. “We’re excellent secret keepers.”

“Well I’m going to join that group in the bar, since we’re not leaving for a few days,” Dane said. He leaned in conspiratorially. “Might have hit the mini-bar already. Don’t have to be ready to fly at a moment’s notice, thank God.”

“Right,” Greg said, holding in a smile. “Well, have a good one.”

“You too,” Dane said.

As he left, Mycroft murmured, “I hadn’t considered how difficult this would be for the flight crew.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “They’ve got a rougher ride than the rest of us, that’s for sure.”

They continued into the restaurant, smiling as the same waitress seated them at the same table as the previous evening.

“Please don’t continue to berate yourself for not thinking of Adrienne today,” Mycroft said as soon as they were settled.

“What?” Greg asked, startled. Mycroft was looking at him, and the expression he saw in those remarkable grey eyes was empathetic.

“Your expression made it clear when Dane commented on our desires to return to Dallas,” Mycroft explained, his expression turning hesitant. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Nah,” Greg said. “You’re right. Maybe I should call her tonight.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft replied, glancing briefly at the wine list before closing it and looking directly at Greg. He was considering something, and when he opened his mouth, Greg was not expecting what he said.

“Might I challenge you to extend yourself as you have challenged me?”

“What?” Greg said. He had no idea what Mycroft was saying.

“Since we have arrived, you have challenged me to step outside my comfort zone,” Mycroft told him. “The benefits have been…significant.”

Greg bit back a grin at the formal phrasing.

“Adrienne is fine,” Mycroft said intently. “She has Delilah and a network of support, as does the baby.”

Greg nodded, his heart beating faster as he sensed Mycroft laying the groundwork for something.

“You have done an admirable job ensuring she will be able to live independently, with help and support, when you return to England,” Mycroft continued. “And I would suspect that has been to the detriment of your own relaxation time recently.”

“Yeah,” Greg admitted, feeling his face colour. “Haven’t had a lot of down time in the last six months.”

“So,” Mycroft continued, “As you urged me to consider this an opportunity to forgo the usual requirements of my life, I would propose you do the same.”

Greg blinked.

“Let her be taken care of by those you already trust,” Mycroft said quietly. “Allow yourself to relax while we are here. Delilah will call you if there is anything you need to know, I assume?” Greg nodded. “In which case, my recommendation would be to give Adrienne space to rest and heal, and perhaps yourself also.”

Greg nodded slowly, processing Mycroft’s words. The waitress came over, presumably to ask for drinks, but Mycroft spoke to her briefly and she left. The idea of leaving Adrienne, even with the family he’d so carefully grown around her, made Greg deeply uncomfortable, but he could see the logic in Mycroft’s words. It had always been coming; that was the point of all that work and planning, wasn’t it? As he looked over, Mycroft was watching him work through it, calm and patient. His composure was a little unnerving, actually, but Greg had a sudden flash of insight.

“Is this what it was like?” he asked suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft replied.

“Is this what it was like?” Greg repeated himself. “When I was trying to convince you to…” he waved one hand in the air. “I mean, I can see your point, but…” Greg blew out a breath. “It’s not so easy to do it.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. When Greg looked confused, he clarified, “Yes, that is precisely what it was like.”

“Right,” Greg said. “Kind of wish I hadn’t been so persuasive, then.”

The expression on Mycroft’s face changed, growing serious as he leaned forward, holding Greg’s eyes.

“I am exceptionally grateful to you,” Mycroft said, his words quiet and sincere. “More than you could know.”

“Really?” Greg said, surprised. Mycroft’s gaze was intense, and a shiver bounced down his spine at the sudden moment between them. He fought to keep hold of it.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, and the way he closed his mouth made it clear he was not prepared to discuss it any further. Maybe he didn’t have the words yet. Perhaps later, Greg thought, but right now he needed to answer Mycroft.

He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t call her. Well, I will when we know for sure we’re leaving. How does that sound?”

“Perfectly reasonable,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “Please do not feel bound by that promise. If you wish to call her, I don’t want you to-”

Greg stopped him without thinking, his hand landing over Mycroft’s where it was nervously straightening his cutlery. The fingers below his stopped immediately, frozen at Greg’s touch.

“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate your concern. And you’re right, I need to see if it works.” He waved his hand, the gesture as much to illustrate his point as to remove it from Mycroft’s. He didn’t want to make any kind of public display. “I trust Delilah, and this is the perfect opportunity to make sure it’s all…right.”

Mycroft nodded, and the waitress returned with a bottle of wine. Mycroft nodded at the label, and she poured for them both.

“We’ll need a few moments with the menus, please,” he murmured before raising his glass to Greg.

“What’s this?” Greg asked. It smelled different to anything he’d drunk before.

“A local winery,” Mycroft replied. “They use local berries to produce their wines.” He shrugged, a gesture so unlike him Greg blinked in surprise. “I doubt it will pair particularly with anything on the menu, but I asked the waitress to bring me something local, and so,” he indicted the glass in his hand.

“You mean you’ve never tried this?” Greg asked. When Mycroft shook his head, he asked, “And you don’t think it will go with our meal?”

“No,” Mycroft said, a little defensively.

“That’s probably the most impulsive thing I’ve seen you do since we arrived,” Greg said, grinning. “Maybe my optimism is rubbing off on you.”

“Doubtful,” Mycroft replied, though his face definitely reddened. “A toast?”

“To new friends,” Greg said, smiling.

“And expanding our horizons,” Mycroft replied. They tapped their wine glasses, Greg feeling a thrill as Mycroft held his eyes a shade longer than necessary. He sipped at his wine, the sweetness immediately apparent. It was nice, though he didn’t know enough about wine to really say more than that. Though they hadn’t mentioned it, he’d bet his pension Mycroft knew far more about fine wines than he ever would.

“What do you think?” Greg asked.

Mycroft looked thoughtful. “Surprising,” he said finally, “but I like it.”

“Well, maybe you should order something for both of us,” Greg said, opening his menu. “Something that won’t not go with this.”

“Something that won’t not go with the wine?” Mycroft repeated. “I’m not even sure I understand that sentence, Greg.”

“Sorry, is my East London comprehensive grammar too complicated?” Greg said, grinning. “Just order us something, okay?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft said, closing the menu as the waitress approached.

“Hi, have you decided what you’d like?” she asked.

“No,” Mycroft said, his eyes meeting Greg’s. “We would like you to choose us something uniquely local.”

“Uniquely local?” she repeated uncertainly. She glanced at Greg. He could feel a wide grin, but he nodded in affirmation.

“Are you…sure?” she asked. “Some dishes are a bit of an acquired taste.”

“He’s a very adventurous diner,” Greg said. “Seriously, anything’s fine. We want to try something we can’t get anywhere else.”

“Okay, then,” the waitress said, still sounding doubtful as she took their menus.

“An adventurous diner?” Mycroft asked when she was gone.

“I saw how suspicious you were of the Timbits,” Greg said. “And then you flat out lied to steal the last one from me.”

“Really,” Mycroft murmured. He didn’t say anything else, but his eyes on Greg’s were soft and there was definitely a moment of…something else there. Something flanked by a heavy dose of uncertainty, but Greg saw it nonetheless, and given how good Mycroft had been at shuttering his expression earlier, he must have wanted Greg to see it.

Grinning, Greg picked up his wine and sipped at it. He could feel this now, the evening’s conversation winding through the gentle teasing they’d already established and more serious topics, but the undercurrent was there, regardless. He hadn’t noticed really noticed until now, but as he watched Mycroft’s fingers toy with the stem of his wine glass and thought back, he could see it. It had started the previous day, of course, though he couldn’t pinpoint the moment; it was too subtle for that, and by no means consistent. But today, there were more and more moments in which he could see it in retrospect, and since they’d arrived home this afternoon, it was there, clear to see through every interaction.

He just had to be patient. See where it led them. Not try to force anything. And now he knew they had at least two more nights – assuming it was Wednesday? – it was easier not to push. There was no rush. They could take their time.

“It’s Wednesday, right?” he asked suddenly.

“I believe so,” Mycroft replied. “We landed on Tuesday…which was yesterday. Hence, today is Wednesday.”

“Yes, thanks for that,” Greg said, rolling his eyes at the sarcasm. “It’s all kind of rolled together.”

“The drinking last night can’t have helped,” Mycroft said in a mild tone that belied the humour in his voice.

“It didn’t,” Greg said, wincing. “I certainly won’t be doing that again.”

“The drinking or the late night?” Mycroft asked. “Because you literally have a glass of wine in your hand right now.”

“Was it really late?” Greg asked, ignoring the comment. “I had no idea what time it was.”

“Yes, that much was clear,” Mycroft replied dryly. “It was…significantly past midnight.”

“Jesus, sorry,” Greg winced. “Not my usual night out, I can assure you.”

“What is your usual night out?” Mycroft asked.

“Haven’t had one in a long time,” Greg replied. He thought back. “Used to like going to open mic nights. Not always to play, but to listen to music and talk to people. You could talk, not like at a nightclub, and sometimes there’d be a musician there who would just be…amazing.”

“You are a people person,” Mycroft noted.

“Yeah,” Greg shrugged. “Haven’t gone out to something like that in years, though. My ex was more of a partier, and I wasn’t, so,” he shrugged, “she’d go and I’d work, or stay in and watch the football. Then when she left I just…kept doing the same. Didn’t seem much point in changing.”

He gave a bit of a laugh to lighten the mood but it didn’t really work.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Yeah, well, it was my own fault,” Greg said. “Could have pulled myself out of it, but I just,” he shrugged, “didn’t.”

Mycroft was silent for a long while before saying carefully, “Please let me know if I am overstepping but…depression is not something you can elect to stop experiencing. It requires help, often of a pharmaceutical variety, but certainly with trained professionals. ‘Pulling yourself out of it’ is an…unrealistic expectation.”

“Yeah,” Greg managed. He cleared his throat. “One of my work friends pulled me up one day. Gave me a right bollocking, which I really needed. She gave me the name of someone in London. I didn’t even know she’d been seeing a psychologist.”

“Many people do,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that’s what she said,” he replied. “Actually, it was more like, ‘Jesus, Greg, have you paid attention to what we do? How the hell have you managed not to for so long?’”

Mycroft smiled. “A fair evaluation, I suspect,” he said.

“It was,” Greg said. “Anyway, I started seeing someone in London, then I was sent out to Dallas,” he shrugged again, “and the rest is history.” He toyed with his wine glass, unconsciously copying Mycroft. “It helped. And then when I got to Dallas, everything happened so fast, I haven’t had time to stop since.”

He could see that Mycroft wanted to say something else but their waitress arrived, and he closed his mouth, glancing back at Greg as though wanting to continue the conversation.

“Here you go,” the waitress said, placing several dishes on the table. She pointed as she rattled off, “cod tongue, Jiggs dinner, cod au gratin, and chef’s prepared you this.” The last dish looked like a tiny tomato salad dressed with small, bright green leaves. “It’s oyster leaf.” She grinned. “If you’re still game later we can do you local desserts too.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured as Greg inspected the dishes and the waitress left them to it.

“Do you think there are vegetables in Newfoundland?” he asked. “Apart from that,” he pointed to the oyster leaf dish, “I don’t think I see a single one.”

“There are vegetables in here,” Mycroft replied. “I believe it was called a ‘Jiggs dinner’.”

“Looks like an overdone casserole,” Greg muttered, deliberately pitching his voice so only Mycroft would hear. “Just like my granny used to make. Oversalted and overcooked and under….everything else-d.”

Mycroft looked aghast, but Greg could see the mirth in his eyes. “It would be rude not to try everything,” he said. “Shall we start with the intriguingly named ‘oyster leaf’?”

“Sure,” Greg replied. They each took a forkful, making sure to include one of the leaves; Greg balanced it near his mouth, then glanced at Mycroft. “On three?”

“One,” Mycroft said, “two…”

“Three,” Greg finished, and they each ate. For a second there was nothing, and then… “JE-sus!” he said, eyes opening wide. “Oysters!”

“Was that surprising?” Mycroft asked. His own reaction had been muted, Greg saw; he’d been watching Greg instead, and the amusement on his face made it clear he had made the connection between the name and the likely taste.

“Yeah,” Greg said, swallowing the oyster flavoured mouthful. “Wow, that was…weird.”

“Certainly unusual,” Mycroft said. “Shall we try something else?”

It was a strange meal, Greg thought, as they worked their way slowly through the rest of the dishes. The cod tongue was better than he’d expected, though Mycroft thought it might have been the scrunchions Greg was appreciating.

“Whatever it is, it’s good,” Greg declared, grinning. Mycroft’s smile was wider and more relaxed than he’d seen. It drew a lazy swirl of desire through Greg and he relished it. Things were building slowly and as much as he wanted to know where they were heading, he was enjoying this. Watching Mycroft relax, seeing his surprising choices as he embraced the new and untried. Hearing his stories.

Mycroft spoke of his time travelling, eating local food when he could, though from the sound of it security sometimes restricted his movements. Where he might have preferred to find a small local restaurant or street market, he explained he sometimes had to make do with room service.

“Sounds terrible,” Greg said. “Someone cooking for you, and you get to sit in bed in your pants and eat it? And then someone does the dishes?” He shook his head. “Have you considered a change of career?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at this, carefully putting his knife and fork together. “No,” he said, “It’s a cross I have to bear.”

The plates empty, Greg looked at Mycroft. He didn’t want the meal to end – and what would they do for the rest of the evening? The question sent a cascade of possibilities through his mind, from the mundane to the downright filthy. He swallowed.

“Dessert?” he asked. He leaned in. “I could do with some Timbits, myself, but don’t tell the chef that.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure a range of desserts such as this would be wise,” he said, “but perhaps a single serve shared between us would be enough?”

“Sure,” Greg said. He lifted his wine glass only to realise it was empty. They’d finished the bottle, actually, and when the waitress came over, Mycroft asked her to suggest something to drink along with a dessert.

“Just one,” Greg said, “with two spoons.”

“Certainly,” she said, clearing their plates. “You liked the local food, then?”

“Acquired taste was quite an accurate description,” Mycroft said tactfully. “Please do thank the chef for us. I’m sure they were outstanding examples of each dish.”

“Thank you,” the waitress said with a smile. “I’ll pass on your compliments.”

“You know,” Greg said, his heart thumping at bringing up the topic again, “this isn’t helping the general idea that you and I are…together.”

Mycroft looked at him steadily. “I know,” he said. “But I can’t find it in myself to be concerned.”

Greg’s mouth went dry. “Really?” he asked.

A slight frown told him that Mycroft was thinking, so he waited. “I can’t quite explain,” he said slowly, “but…I feel different here. Less confined by my life.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Not that I have ever felt confined particularly, until arriving here.” He glanced over, and Greg realised with a start that the security detail – Dave and the other bloke he hadn’t met yet – were sitting across the room, eating. Of course they had to eat, he realised, but how had he forgotten that they would be there too?

“Well, good,” Greg managed, not quite sure if there was a question or something he should be answering. Was Mycroft saying…what was he saying? That he didn’t care if people thought he and Greg were together? That he was interested? Or not, that it didn’t matter because nobody here knew them?

They sat in silence for a few moments until their waitress arrived back, bearing a single dish and two small glasses of wine.

“Toutons,” she announced, “and a local dessert wine.” She smiled at them, obviously having accepted their strange ordering practices. “And two forks, of course.”

“Thank you,” Greg murmured. He leaned in. “Local donuts?”

“Local donuts,” Mycroft agreed. He too was leaning in, examining the plate, and when he looked up, his eyes were closer than Greg imagined. Clear and amused, soft with probably the wine and hopefully the shared joke, he felt himself pulled in. It took some effort to sit back and reach for his glass, though he did it without breaking eye contact.

“Well, cheers again,” Greg said, picking up his glass. A third glass of wine might not be the best idea, but at least he’d spread it out tonight, and he was eating. “To cod tongues.”

“_Salute_,” Mycroft murmured. “You are aware they are not actually tongues from a fish?”

“They’re not?” Greg said, tasting his wine. Sweet but not cloying, he thought. “Wait, did you know that already?”

“It was in-” Mycroft started, but Greg cut him off.

“That bloody local guide,” Greg said, grinning at Mycroft’s smug expression. “So what are they then?”

“Pieces of flesh from the cheek or neck of the cod,” he said. “Considered a delicacy.”

“Oh, that’s much better,” Greg muttered sarcastically.

Mycroft raised one eye brow in amusement. “Surely it’s no different-” he began again.

“I know, I know,” Greg grumbled good-naturedly. “I should have read that brochure, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said consideringly. He picked up a knife and cut into the toutons, leaving bite-sized pieces across the plate. “Can I offer you the first taste?”

“Don’t think this makes up for the…” Greg started, then cut himself off as he tasted the touton. “Oh my God, that’s amazing.”

“Better than-” Mycroft started, but Greg held up one hand, stopping him. “Am I to be allowed to finish a sentence this evening?” Mycroft asked, sitting back to watch as Greg ate another piece.

“Maybe,” Greg said. “But don’t say the name of those things while we’re eating these. It’s sacrilege. They are not even in the same ballpark.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, about to say something else, but Greg picked up a touton on his fork and leaned over the table, delivering a piece of touton into his open mouth.

Surprise then resignation crossed Mycroft’s face as he accepted the morsel, an impressed expression replacing it as Greg sat back, grinning. “Well that worked too,” Greg said. “Instead of interrupting you, I mean.”

Mycroft chewed and swallowed before replying. “If you plan on interrupting me in such a manner all evening,” he said, and the pause made Greg’s fingers tingle, “please, by all means, go ahead. They are delicious.”

“Told you,” Greg said. “What’s this stuff on the top? Some kind of syrup?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said. “Molasses, perhaps?”

“You mean the brochure didn’t say?” Greg asked, feigning astonishment. “What kind of an ill-informed place are they even running here?” He couldn’t keep a straight face, grinning as Mycroft rolled his eyes at the theatrics.

“I suppose there must be some surprises here in Newfoundland,” Mycroft said. The look he shot at Greg lingered, appreciative and warm, and Greg knew he wasn’t talking about toutons.

“Yes,” Greg said, wanting to reciprocate, “sometimes the unexpected things turn out to be the best.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured.

They sat in silence until the toutons were finished, drinking their wine and shooting glances across the table. Greg knew he’d been caught out a few times, and he’d caught Mycroft, too; neither had spoken, but the private smiles that kept crossing their faces spoke volumes. So much for slow, he thought. Mycroft was far more open than Greg thought he might be, and the coaxing he’d considered might not even be necessary.

Finally, their plate was clean, wine glasses empty. Greg sat back, sighing with contentment. He’d had just the right amount of wine to relax him, and along with the good company and the food, warmth spiralled through his veins. He thought Mycroft might feel similarly; his cheeks were flushed and he was looking at Greg with amusement tinged with fondness. It was hardly open adoration, but it was far removed from the guarded expression Greg had seen him wearing in public since they’d arrived.

“Shall we find that piano?” Mycroft asked.

“Sure,” Greg replied.

When the waitress reappeared, Mycroft asked her to add the bill to their room. Greg tried to protest, but the look he received was level and broached no arguments. “Clearly, as I am on a business trip, this is a business expense.”

Greg nodded. He’d never had a business dinner even remotely like this, but he wasn’t going to argue. “Piano, then?” he said.

“I think so,” Mycroft replied.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All about the piano!
> 
> The third piece Mycroft plays for Greg is by Ludovico Einaudi, 'Divenire' (loose translation courtesy of Google - to become, to grow.)  
Links if you'd like to play it while you read.  
[playing his own piece with an orchestra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X1DRDcGlSsE)  
[a solo piano interpretation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pm1a7VzISK4)

Before they moved on, Mycroft collected a pitcher of water and two glasses from the bar. Greg checked with the receptionist that they were actually allowed to use the piano in the function room; she’d heard the previous conversation and her smile was conspiratorial and fond, as though by unlocking it she was aiding and abetting some kind of grand romantic plan.

Greg was not going to dissuade her from that particular notion. Not now that things seemed to be progressing.

The room was large and decidedly unromantic for its size, but the receptionist hit a light switch and a single spotlight turned on, lighting the small area of carpet off the dancefloor on which the piano sat. Immediately, the rest of the room receded and the lit space was breathtakingly intimate.

“Wow,” Greg managed. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said with a wink. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Cheers,” Greg murmured, and she passed Mycroft coming in as she left. Greg waited for him to catch up before slowly walking towards the piano. “This is pretty fancy,” he said lightly. “Not what I’d have expected on an island in the middle of nowhere.”

“Nor I,” Mycroft agreed. He brought a small table close, depositing the water and glasses on it. “We should drink some water,” he said with an amused glance at Greg.

Greg smiled.

Mycroft poured, and Greg wondered if their fingers would brush as he passed Greg the glass, but he allowed Greg to pick up his own from the table instead. Deliberate, Greg wondered, sneaking a glance over the rim as he took a long draw. Was Mycroft playing games now?

“I assume you’re going to play,” Greg said, indicating the piano. “Since chopsticks is as much as I can manage on one of these.”

“I had planned to,” Mycroft said, “if that’s acceptable entertainment?”

“Absolutely,” Greg replied. Watching those long fingers dance over a keyboard in this quiet, intimate space, wine softening both of them? He could think of nothing more fitting to end their evening right now. Pulling up a chair, he sat at the bass end of the keyboard, angling so he could see both Mycroft’s hands and face.

“Is this okay?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied, one hand brushing the glossy black cover. He flicked a glance at Greg, then back again at his fingertips.

“Hang on,” Greg said, suddenly looking around. “Where’s Dave? Or…the other guy? What is his name, actually?”

“Simon,” Mycroft said, gaze firmly on the keyboard cover. “I asked Simon to remain outside.” His face was flushing, and Greg pressed his lips together, holding in whatever his mouth would blurt in response.

His heart was not so easily constrained, and the thumping was loud as it sped up. “Okay,” Greg said.

Mycroft arranged himself on the piano stool, feet finding the pedals, playing a tentative note or two and nodding. “Quite in tune,” he murmured to himself. Glancing at Greg self-consciously, he began to play from memory. It was slow, something Greg vaguely recognised but couldn’t name.

Sitting back, Greg cradled his water glass, watching as Mycroft found the notes. He wondered how long it had actually been since he played. Not as often as it should be, he’d said of his own piano, which was a non-answer if ever he’d heard one. However long it had been, the muscle memory was there; Greg wouldn’t have known if he’d made a small mistake, but it sounded good to him. Music rippled out across their small circle of light, layering another level of intimacy into the air.

Greg was blown away.

The piece built in intensity, and Mycroft’s face grew more serious as he concentrated, fingers flying faster over the keys as the crescendo crested. Greg felt his heart beating faster, though at the music or from watching Mycroft, he didn’t know. Mycroft’s fingers danced, the slight furrow of his brow the only indication of effort. How many people had seen this? Seen Mycroft concentrating so hard on this, on creating a beautiful experience that would fade as soon as his fingers left the keys? A tingle of awareness flowed slowly through him. This was not something easily shared. He swallowed, the honour of being shown something so person dawning on him.

As the last notes faded, Mycroft sat still for a long moment, fingers resting lightly before he looked apprehensively at Greg.

“Am I meant to clap?” Greg asked. “Feels a bit weird when it’s only me.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft said, flushing.

“That was brilliant,” Greg told him honestly. “Do I know that piece from somewhere?”

“Possibly,” Mycroft said. “Einaudi’s music is widely used.” He turned away, drinking from his water glass before replacing it. Something about his choppy actions said _nervous_. Self-conscious, maybe? Greg wanted to do something to reassure him. To encourage him to play again.

Keep it simple, he told himself.

“Hey,” he said, giving a soft smile when Mycroft turned his eyes up again. “Play me another one?”

“Another?” Mycroft repeated. “Was there…something in particular?”

“No,” Greg said. “Whatever you like.” He smiled, feeling his heart thump as he added, “I just like hearing you play.”

Mycroft’s eyes were wide for a second until he swallowed again, turning back to the keyboard. “Very well,” he replied. He hesitated for a moment before starting very slowly, picking out something light and delicate. It was a simple piece, and Greg frowned until it resolved into something his brain recognised.

“Very funny,” he said, as Mycroft sped up and broke into the familiar section of ‘chopsticks’.

“It was originally written as a joke, I believe,” Mycroft said, smiling to himself as he finished the piece. He paused for a moment before beginning something else Greg recognised.

“That’s the…what’s it called?” Greg asked, mesmerised as Mycroft’s fingers flew over the keys. He didn’t actually expect an answer as Mycroft was playing, but he replied,

“_Flight of the Bumblebee._ Rimsky-Korsakov. This is approximately three quarters’ speed.” He concluded abruptly, looking to Greg with a rueful expression. “Too long without practice will slow the fingers.”

Greg grinned at him. “Play me something you know well,” he said, feeling bold. He certainly met Mycroft’s eyes without reservations, not caring if what he was thinking was visible. Mycroft was brilliant and he was fascinated. A little tipsy, but it was simply lowering his inhibitions. Allowing him to flirt a little more, be a little more open.

“Something I know well?” Mycroft repeated.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Something you like.”

“Something I like,” Mycroft repeated again.

Greg sat back, prepared to wait while Mycroft thought. It took a few moments – in which Greg watched his fingertips stroke the keys, a singularly arousing experience – but eventually Mycroft shifted his weight and began.

It was slow, each press of the keys deliberate. His eyes were concentrating again, but this time more was shifting through his expression. As the melody began, Greg was astonished to see his eyes almost close; was he that familiar with this piece? The notes rose slowly, cascading through middle registers, never really resolving into a happier sound. It felt like sadness, Greg thought. Or…not quite sadness, but a quiet acceptance of something lost. Slower sections interspersed throughout, and Mycroft opened his eyes, pinning them to the keys as he played.

Greg had the distinct impression he was being shown something intensely personal. The flush across Mycroft’s cheeks, the flashes of unhappiness he kept seeing…surely this was Mycroft, pouring himself out onto the keyboard for Greg to hear. Too personal to have his security in the room, although Greg didn’t think he’d necessarily have planned this particular piece. Maybe he just wanted some privacy, Greg thought. To not have to think about how he expressed himself.

How he expressed himself to Greg.

Closing his eyes, Greg listened. The music rolled over him, the cascading notes bathing him in a quietly dignified despair. Jesus, was that the word? It had floated into Greg’s mind on the music and somehow it fit perfectly.

As he was trying to figure out what Mycroft was saying with the music, it came to an abrupt stop. He opened his eyes, startled to find Mycroft sitting, hands raised from the piano, eyes a million miles away.

“Is that…are you okay?” Greg blurted.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, his voice low and quiet. He took a deep breath and blinked, then turned his head to look at Greg. A soft smile crossed his face as he added, “That’s how it finishes.”

“Right,” Greg said, feeling a little foolish. “Clearly I didn’t know that.”

Mycroft nodded.

“It’s beautiful,” Greg said quietly, settling again into his chair. He realised he was holding his water and drained the glass, which was the point of holding it; he’d have forgotten, otherwise. “And you obviously know it well.”

“Another Einaudi piece,” Mycroft said. “It…resonates with me.”

Greg nodded, not wanting to comment on what he’d interpreted. “It’s very evocative,” he said carefully. “I know you said you don’t play a lot now, but I’m guessing it was a favourite at one time?”

Mycroft’s expression was surprised again. “It was,” he said.

“You keep doing that,” Greg said. “Looking surprised when I remember something you said.”

Mycroft nodded. “As I said,” he said, “I have few conversations of a personal nature. People tend to remember what I have told them only when it is of benefit to them. I’m not used to people remembering the personal details.”

“I’m guessing you’re not used to _sharing_ the personal details,” Greg added.

Mycroft’s fingers started playing over the keys, something slow and contemplative. “No,” he said. He glanced over, fingers still playing. “You’ve made a lot of changes in me, Greg.”

Greg’s heart thudded. “You’ve done the changing,” he said. “I’m just the guy pushing you into doing it.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft allowed. “Perhaps you’re the guy I’m allowing to push me into it.”

_Jesus._

“Perhaps,” Greg replied. The music swirled around them for a few moments until he found the courage to point out, “I didn’t push you to leave your security outside.”

“No,” Mycroft said. “You did not.”

He broke off from the music he was playing, turning to drink the rest of his water. “Despite the wine we drank at dinner,” he said, “I find myself craving another drink.”

“Really?” Greg asked. “Sure, I could go a Scotch or something.” A grin broke his face. “Actually, how about I ask for something local. Keep the theme going.”

“An excellent idea,” Mycroft replied.

Greg smiled at him, his heart thudding as he crossed out of the light towards the door. His eyes took a second to adjust, and he breathed deeply. This evening was taking turns he hadn’t anticipated, and he had to be careful not to push anything too hard. They would be here until at least Friday, after all.

Greg walked fast across the foyer, nodding at Simon, though he didn’t stop to introduce himself. More important things on his mind. He knew where he’d like their slowly growing relationship to go, but it wasn’t necessarily that it had to happen tonight. This evening was wonderful. The slow swirl of anticipation was bringing them together, and Mycroft’s surprising admissions were thrilling.

“Heya,” he said to the bartender. It was the same guy as earlier, and Greg had never been so glad he’d tipped well in his life.

“Still around?” the bartender said with a grin.

“Yeah,” Greg said. He frowned. “It’s quieter in here than I thought it would be.”

“Early starters, early finishers,” the bartender said. He grinned. “They braved the weather and moved on to that bar I was telling you about. You might hear ‘em stumbling in later.”

“The weather’s turned, then?” Greg asked.

“Wind’s picked up,” the bartender answered. He shrugged. “Not sure they’re used to it but it’s nothing too wild as far as we’re concerned.”

“Right,” Greg said. How bad would this storm be, exactly? Not worth worrying about now. “Look, I need a favour.”

“Sure,” the bartender said.

“I need a drink, something local.” He leaned in. “Tryin’ to impress someone, if I’m honest.”

“That guy who came in before?” The bartender said. “You bolted from here like your arse was on fire.”

Greg grinned again, flushing. “That’d be him. Well, he’s a fair bit posher than me so I need something good.”

“No problem,” the bartender said. “Straight up?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. He watched as the bartender pulled a bottle down, pouring two generous fingers of something dark into two heavy tumblers.

“Gunpowder and Rose Rum,” he said, placing them in front of Greg. “A local distillery.”

“Gunpowder and Rose?” Greg repeated.

“Yep,” the bartender said. “Sailors used to wet gunpowder with their allotment of rum. If it still exploded, the rum was a decent proof. If not, well,” he grinned, “they were being shorted, weren’t they?”

“Wow,” Greg said. “Okay, then. How much do I owe you?”

“On the house,” the bartender said, with a knowing smile.

“Seriously? Great, thanks,” Greg said.

“Have a good one,” the bartender told him.

Greg walked carefully back across the foyer. Simon’s expression didn’t change, but he held the door open for Greg.

“Cheers,” Greg murmured. He didn't react and Greg wondered briefly if he was happier standing outside than pretending not to listen to their conversations.

The room was still largely dark, and the music Mycroft was playing filtered across the room, drawing Greg towards the pool of light splashed across the piano. Greg let his feet fall deliberately heavily as he crossed the floor, not wanting to startle Mycroft. It must have worked because he turned to greet Greg, rising from the stool in a single fluid movement.

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured. He sniffed delicately at the liquid, his eyes rising in surprise at the aroma. “Roses?”

“And gunpowder,” Greg said. “A local distillery makes it. Apparently the gunpowder thing comes from something sailors used to do. Wet their gunpowder with their rum, and it would only catch fire if the rum was decent. Had a decent amount of alcohol in it, I mean. I think.”

“I understand,” Mycroft replied, his eyes meeting Greg’s again. Carefully, he offered his glass to Greg, and the single deliberate touch sent a shiver down Greg’s spine with the delicate sound of the cut glass meeting.

They both sipped, the smoky, delicate flavour draping itself over Greg’s tongue. “Wow,” he said. “That’s unusual.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed. “Another unique Newfoundland experience. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Greg replied, raising his glass again to his lips. Mycroft mirrored the action, and this time their eyes met as they shared the moment, close and quiet. Greg could see Mycroft savouring the flavour, and when they swallowed at the same time, he almost shivered, the smoky liquid passing down his throat at the same time as Mycroft’s. It felt intimate, as though he and Mycroft were inside each other, experiencing the same moment in time without another soul in the world present.

Now that was a thought.

_JE-sus indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, tomorrow marks the start of NaNo, which is good news and not-so-good-news.  
Not-so-good - I'll be focussing on another piece from tomorrow until it's done, so this story will be on the backburner.
> 
> Good - I've been working hard to try and finish this so the next two chapters only need an edit. Huzzah! If I need a break in November, I'll switch back to do that for you. Also under the heading 'good', there's at least another half dozen chapters of this story to come. So lots to look forward to!
> 
> <3 Halloween blessings to you all, and may your muse be in the mood if you're taking on NaNo this year!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo, friends. We're back!  
Thank you for your patience if you've been waiting. NaNo went well, allowing me to finish 'Evolution', the Eighth-year Drarry I'd wanted to finish, and Come From Away had been prettily distracting my muse, but no more.  
Now this story is my primary consideration, with the aim to complete it before the end of February. I've offered three pieces for Fandom Trumps Hate and I'm hoping there's a juicy prompt in there for me (jump over in February if you'd like to bid, I'd love to work with you!).
> 
> Anyhow, I digress. Greg and Mycroft are waiting for us, so let's catch up with them. <3

Mycroft took his seat again, eyes lingering on Greg’s face and Greg followed suit, his heart thumping faster as they settled in. He tried to push the thoughts away and concentrate on the moment, but it was difficult.

“What were you playing?” Greg asked, trying to distract himself.

“Something old,” Mycroft said. “Something I learned to accompany my brother.”

“You don’t play together anymore?”

“No,” Mycroft said quietly. “It has been a long time since our relationship was so cordial.”

“Right,” Greg murmured, sipping his rum. He tilted his head. “Tell me about him.”

“My brother?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I mean, you said he has a thing with drugs, but what else?”

Mycroft looked confused. “What…do you mean?”

“Well, that can’t be all there is to him,” Greg said. “You said he played the violin. What else?” When Mycroft still looked confused, Greg said, “Jesus, nobody ever asks more than that, do they?”

“Few know of his drug addiction,” Mycroft replied. “But no, people don’t tend to ask more.” He was silent for a while, fingers reaching out again to the keyboard. The sound echoed around the room, quiet and reflective again.

“My brother,” Mycroft said eventually, “is excellent at reading people.” His fingers continued to move over the piano, and Greg had the impression he was only watching what he was doing to avoid Greg’s eyes.

“Is he?” Greg replied mildly. “Like what you did this morning in Tim Horton’s. When you pretended to figure out who was the Mayor so you could steal the last Timbit?”

Mycroft looked at him, amusement stealing in his eyes. “I’m pleased to see you’ve moved past that,” he said dryly. “Yes, as it happens. We are both skilled at deduction, but while I have trained myself to use my skills professionally, he finds it difficult to be so disciplined.” The music continued for a few moments before dipping into a minor key. “I would not be surprised to learn that he knew of my arrangement with his dealer. She really was a terrible liar. The drugs, he assures me, quiet the roar inside his brain. Allow him to concentrate. I believe the same result could be attained with practice and discipline, but on that point we will always disagree.”

“Siblings,” Greg murmured, sipping his rum. “It’s never easy.”

“No,” Mycroft replied. “While he has never openly accused me of preferring men, I am sure he has deduced it and often alludes to it in our conversations.”

“You talk to him much?” Greg asked.

“No,” Mycroft replied, and the regret was sharp. “Our relationship is not easy. I antagonise him, I fear, without meaning to. I keep my distance so as not make his life more difficult.”

“Jesus, Myc,” Greg muttered.

“Myc?” Mycroft asked, his fingers still moving over the keyboard as his eyebrow rose.

“Sorry,” Greg said. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft didn’t reply, and Greg wondered if that was an indication of his acceptance of the apology or of the nickname. Better not test it, Greg thought to himself. Better not have any more rum, either, after this one. He could feel his tongue working before his brain was quite in gear, and trashing this night was not on his agenda.

“Play me something else?” Greg asked quietly.

Mycroft nodded.

They sat without speaking for a long while, music swirling around them. Mycroft sipped at his rum occasionally, playing with one hand temporarily. Greg barely recognised any of the music; it was quiet and reflective for the most part, and suited the intensely personal reflective mood that had sunk over them since the conversation about Mycroft’s brother. Greg closed his eyes, tilting his head back to listen. It was calming, and knowing it came from Mycroft – his head, his heart, his hands – made it somehow more comforting.

Eventually, the music ended, the last notes hanging in the air for an age until Greg opened his eyes. Mycroft was looking at him, tumbler in hand. His eyes were shuttered and Greg wondered what was happening that he needed to hide it. After all he’d seen – all Mycroft had _allowed_ him to see…

“Come on,” Greg said with a smile. He stood, taking a second to check his balance was good enough not to have to hold onto something. Without thinking, he held out a hand to Mycroft.

Without thinking, it seemed, Mycroft took it, standing up.

In the silent circle of light, they stood, hand in hand. Mycroft’s fingers were long but far slimmer than Greg’s and they slid between his easily. Greg could feel the ring Mycroft wore pressing into his skin.

Neither spoke, but Mycroft closed the lid of the piano and they crossed the floor together as far as the door. Greg glanced over, and Mycroft returned his gaze uncertainly.

Greg loosened their fingers, reaching over to turn out the light.

The darkness was all encompassing, and he rolled his eyes at himself for turning off the light before he opened the door. There was barely a hint of light around the door, but it must be close…

His breath caught in his throat as something landed on his chest.

A hand.

Mycroft’s hand, resting lightly against him. He didn’t move, barely breathed. There was no way Mycroft accidentally mistook him for the door – he was standing in entirely the wrong direction, and by now Mycroft would have felt the fabric of his shirt. He must know what he was doing.

Greg wished he had the same knowledge.

Slowly, the hand moved upwards, and he drew a shaky breath. It might have been his imagination that he could feel individual fingers pressing against him as they rounded the curve of his shoulder and continued up past his collar. The first touch of fingertips against the side of his neck made him gasp, and Mycroft hesitated.

Greg didn’t move, desperate not to frighten Mycroft away with anything too overt. His heart was thumping, though, and all his attention was on that one small patch of skin.

Carefully, the fingers moved up, pressing under his jaw, and he realised Mycroft was taking his pulse. Was he seeing if Greg was affected by this? Wondering if he could find evidence of Greg’s physiological response to him? His mind immediately offered a far cruder alternative, and even the thought pushed a tiny groan from his throat.

Immediately the hand began to withdraw, and without thinking, Greg covered it with his own, holding it to his skin. The palm was pressed against him now, warm as the fingertip curled into his neck. After a moment, Greg removed his hand, closing his eyes in the darkness as he begged Mycroft to continue to do whatever it was he was doing here.

For all the ‘take it slow’ coaching he’d given himself, he yearned for Mycroft to do something definitive. His own experience with all this was obviously more extensive, and he didn’t want to inadvertently push Mycroft away, but if it was Mycroft making the moves, that was a different story.

Hesitantly the hand moved again, cupping his jaw. Greg could see it in his mind, the thumb caressing his jaw, the slight roughness of a day’s stubble rasping against the thumbprint. He shuddered at it, the gentle touch turning a little more confident. Mycroft must have felt it, he thought. Arousal was making his brain a little hazy.

Slowly, he turned his head, lips brushing over skin until they settled in the middle of Mycroft’s palm. His breath washed between them, and over the sound of his own heart a gasp was loud. It emboldened him, and Greg pressed a kiss into it, a sharp pulse of desire shooting through him as fingertips curled into his jaw. The moment drew out, neither moving again for half a dozen breaths.

Greg waited, not sure what might come next. Was this a single moment of daring on Mycroft’s behalf? The booze, the dark, the hours of quiet intimacy; it all could have come together right here like this. Carefully, Mycroft’s hand pulled back, the fingertips trailing along Greg’s skin until their finally lifted.

It was only a second or two until the door opened, a shaft of light barely illuminating Mycroft’s face. Greg saw wide eyes, but their expression was frustratingly invisible in the darkness. Mycroft held open the door as his eyes followed Greg out. He still wasn’t sure where they were at, but it was clear Mycroft wanted to keep things private. As such Greg followed his lead, smiling tightly at Simon as he passed. He could hear Mycroft speaking quietly, but continued across the foyer towards the stairs. It wasn’t until he was almost at his room Greg realised he was still holding the tumbler.

He was looking at it, blinking slowly as he tried to weigh up the idea of going back to the bar or waiting until the morning.

“They won’t mind if we wait until the morning,” Mycroft murmured.

He’d arrived silently, holding up his own tumbler as Greg looked up at him. “Okay,” he said. He looked at Mycroft, searching for a clue as to where they might be at. He offered a slight smile, and when Mycroft returned it Greg’s worry eased. He didn’t move closer, but at least they were okay, Greg thought. We’re just not quite there yet.

“We should turn in,” Mycroft said eventually.

“Yes,” Greg murmured. He let them in, the wash of air as Mycroft passed him feeling as intimate as a caress.

They moved around the room quietly, neither meeting the others’ gaze. Greg was acutely aware of Mycroft, as he changed in the bathroom and reappeared, self-conscious in his pyjamas and robe. Greg’s heart squeezed at the glance he had of Mycroft’s face before he turned away – pink cheeks, fear in his eyes. They’d technically shared a room last night but Greg hadn’t seen any of this. His mind was warring between giving Mycroft space and privacy and wanting to watch him, to see the little rituals only ever observed by someone with whom you shared close quarters.

His decent nature won out, and Greg took a little longer in the bathroom, changing into his sleeping bottoms and an old t shirt. He winced at it as he brushed his teeth, wishing he’d packed something a little less stretched out. He’d not planned to share a room, though. He huffed a small laugh as he remembered debating whether he’d need anything to sleep in at all. Good thing he’d decided on packing it, in the end. He’d hate to have to sleep in jeans. Or something from Walmart.

When he’d drawn out his time in the bathroom as long as he could, Greg opened the door, pausing another second in case…well, he didn’t know, but popping out without warning seemed inconsiderate. He left the light on when he realised it was dark in the main room; when his eyes adjusted, he realised a lamp between the beds was shedding soft light. Mycroft was in bed, lying flat on his back, the blankets tucked neatly around him. His eyes were closed, and Greg wondered if he was asleep or not.

For some reason, the fact that he’d chosen the side closer to Greg’s bed made him smile.

Greg dropped his clothes on the chair beside his bed and pulled back his own blankets. He went back to turn off the bathroom light and check the door, then turned back, blinking at the dim sight in the room. It was a little surreal; the booze still running through his veins, and now he was going to get into bed beside Mycroft. Kind of. As he climbed in and got comfortable, Greg’s mind was musing over the events of the evening.

They were both flirting, he was sure of it. Sometimes it was subtle and other moments were more overt, but overall it felt comfortable. Mycroft probably didn’t realise how unusual it was for him to be so open with Greg. Most people wouldn’t have spoken about the changes they’d made in his situation, assuming they reflected to that level at all. And Mycroft was thanking Greg for pushing him, explaining as best he could how he felt about the changes. It was remarkably trusting, Greg thought, rolling over to look at the shape in the next bed. For someone who appeared to be reserved, he could be quite open. With the right people, perhaps. The idea made him smile a little. Was he one of those people?

Maybe he was. It was a thrilling idea, as he rolled it around in his head. It was a long time since he’d even thought someone would value him like that. Like a partner, someone worthwhile. Worth the effort of trying to express themselves.

Restlessly, he shifted again, wishing his brain would settle down and let him rest. The windowpane rattled in its frame, adding to his disquiet.

“Are you well?” Mycroft’s voice was quiet, but it still made Greg jump, it was so unexpected. He glanced over, by Mycroft was still lying flat on his back, his eyes closed.

“Fine,” Greg said. “Just…got that awake thing happening, you know? The wind’s getting worse. Wondering how bad the storm might get.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I suspect we’ll simply have to wait it out.”

Greg hummed. “See what’s happening in the morning, then.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. Greg blinked, watching as Mycroft shifted, rolling over to face him across the space. “Is it…was there something else on your mind?”

Greg hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to phrase it. Would Mycroft think he was pushing? Looking across the small space, he realised this was probably how Mycroft felt and he’d pushed through it, trying to find the right words. Mycroft’s eyes rested on him patiently.

He took a deep breath.

“I was thinking,” he said, words sounding awkward, “about earlier. The whole day, really, but mainly tonight.” Mycroft didn’t react, as far as Greg could see in the dim light.

“Was there something bothering you about our evening?” Mycroft asked.

“No,” Greg said immediately. “I was thinking that you’re very open.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft said. Greg couldn’t see it but he could imagine one of Mycroft’s eyebrows rising in response.

“I mean,” Greg said, feeling his face heat as he tried to clarify what he meant, “you don’t gloss over things. You try to find the right words to explain. You thanked me for pushing you out of your comfort zone. You told me about your brother. And why it was strange to you that I was remembering things about our conversations.”

“Is that not something people generally do?” Mycroft asked.

“No,” Greg said, and he could hear the same tone in his voice Mycroft often had in his. Somewhere between surprised and still thinking. “People…change the topic. Don’t try and describe what’s happening.”

“And that’s keeping you awake?” Mycroft asked.

“Not specifically,” Greg said. This was harder than he’d anticipated. “But it made me wonder,” he took a deep breath, “why me. Why you told me.”

Mycroft rolled onto his back, and Greg lost their connection. He was quiet for a long time, and Greg wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

“I don’t think you realise how genuine you are,” Mycroft said, the words slow. “I deal with many people who do not show their true selves, and I have developed the habit of doing so as well. But you,” Greg could almost hear the frown as Mycroft searched for the right words, “you didn’t know your seat would recline. And you were so…surprised. And pleased, when I showed you how.”

“Well, yeah,” Greg said, grinning at the memory. “I mean, they’re amazing. Aren’t they?”

“Not to everyone,” Mycroft said, “and many would not consider it advantageous to admit their ignorance, if you will forgive the word.”

“O’course,” Greg murmured. “I wasn’t considering anything, though. Just…” he shrugged. “Wanted to chat.”

“A rare occurrence,” Mycroft replied earnestly.

“Well, we’ve gotten ourselves here,” Greg said, “so it must have been alright.”

The silence bloomed between them for a moment, and Greg wondered if their conversation would end here. It wouldn’t be terrible if it did. To his surprise, Mycroft rolled back over, looking at Greg again.

“Do you recall,” Mycroft said, “at dinner this evening, I expressed my gratitude to you?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. A lot had happened since then, but he remembered wondering what Mycroft meant, and if he would explain one day. He tried to wait as patiently as Mycroft had earlier, but his heart was definitely pumping harder than usual.

“I have been comfortable for a long time,” Mycroft said. “My routine is set, and I rarely deviate from my habits unless work demands it.” He shifted his shoulders a little, resettling into the mattress. “This occurrence would have been uncomfortable in itself, but I would have coped but returned to my ways as soon as we departed. When you arrived in first class, I was already considering tasks I might be able to attempt without a secure internet connection.”

“Really?” Greg asked.

“Really,” Mycroft echoed. “The list was short.” There was a pause, until he added, “And then someone took the seat across the aisle and unlike anyone in my regular sphere, began a friendly conversation. You couldn’t understand why I would not take the opportunity to do something different. I will admit I was drawn to you at that point, and our room allocation was not entirely prompted by my security concerns.”

“Mycroft,” Greg breathed. He wanted to laugh and groan at the same time. “You abused your power, didn’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft allowed with a small smile. “Simply by drawing me into conversation you had pushed me out of my comfort zone and I was startled at how engaging it was. In fact, you broke unspoken rules by voicing the obvious – that a government employee travelling first class with two security staff was hardly a minor employee. It was fascinating. I wanted to continue.”

“Okay,” Greg said. Mycroft had called him fascinating, the same word he’d been using to describe Mycroft almost since the beginning.

_Wow._

“You are more open than you realise,” Mycroft said, “moreso than anyone with whom I interact regularly. I was endeavouring to reciprocate.”

“Well, thank you,” Greg replied. He was floored. Mycroft was trying to be more open because he thought Greg was open? “I don’t really know what to say. Hang on, you thought this even though you also thought I was married?”

“That was the juxtaposition of which I spoke earlier,” Mycroft admitted. “I couldn’t believe someone as,” he hesitated, “genuinely lovely would be so deceitful.”

“Thank you,” Greg said, “I think.”

“Does that ease your mind?” Mycroft asked.

“Talking to you does,” Greg said. He took a deep breath and added in a rush, “I was also thinking…I didn’t know if I did the right thing earlier. When the lights went off.”

Mycroft’s breathing hitched, and he rolled onto his back. Greg wondered if he’d be able to see a blush in better light. “You did,” he whispered.

“Good,” Greg replied. He sighed. “I think I’ll be able to sleep. Would you mind if we turned the lamp off?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft said. One long arm reached out and before he flicked the switch, grey eyes met Greg’s. “Good night, Gregory.”

“G’night,” Greg replied, closing his eyes in the darkness.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW religious homophobic language. Chapter summary at the end if you'd prefer to avoid this one. <3

The next morning their room was quiet enough for the wind outside to wake Greg. He blinked once but closed his eyes again, feeling immediately calm when he recognised where he was. He lay still for a while, thinking back over the previous day, working backwards from the quiet words in bed through to their experience in Tim Horton’s. That felt like a million years ago, and it was only yesterday. He and Mycroft had come an incredibly long way in a short time, and yet he was excited about what today might bring instead of wary of how fast they’d moved. There was no rush to wake up properly, and when he was finally ready, he opened his eyes, blinking against the light. He’d rolled in the night, and now he could see the bathroom door. It was closed, which meant Mycroft was awake and up. He shouldn’t lie in any longer, then.

Pulling himself up, Greg stretched, rolling his shoulder. The hours in economy hadn’t done it any favours, but it wasn’t any worse than usual, which was all he could really ask for these days. Surprisingly his head felt fine, after two nights in a row drinking more than he should have. Yes, Mycroft had brought in that pitcher with water but they’d barely touched it before the rum. Thinking about it, his eyes drifted left and he blinked before smiling a bit. The tumbler from the previous night’s rum was sitting there full of water. A pair of white tablets sat beside it and Greg would bet it was aspirin.

“Good morning,” Mycroft said from the bathroom door.

Greg turned, and his eyes met Mycroft’s before he spoke. His immediate instinct was to reply, but he held his tongue, instead smiling warmly, holding Mycroft’s eyes.

“Aspirin?” he asked finally, indicating the tablets.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, moving around the end of the bed. He was wearing Walmart clothes again, the buttons on his shirt undone. Greg’s heart thumped hard a couple of times, just in case he’d forgotten that moment from the previous day.

“Thank you,” Greg said.

Mycroft had finished replacing his things in his bag, and when he turned, Greg expected him to speak, but he followed Greg’s example from earlier, holding his tongue. Grey eyes settled, and the smile spreading across Mycroft’s face reached those eyes, warming them as he looked at Greg. He didn’t say anything, and Greg felt their warmth as he drank the water and downed the aspirin.

The comfortable silence set the tone for the rest of the morning. Greg stretched again, covertly checking that Mycroft was done with the bathroom. The damp curl behind his ear said he’d had a shower, as did the fresh clothes, so Greg slipped out of bed and collected clean clothes for himself, closing the bathroom door behind him. He didn’t shave today, but showered and brushed his teeth, dressing in another set of Gander clothes. It took longer than usual to get his hair looking right, and finally he just left it as it was. With the wind so strong it might not be worth spending too much time on it anyway.

When he emerged from the bathroom Mycroft was standing at the window, hands in his pockets.

“It is later than I expected,” he said, looking at Greg.

“Is it?” Greg asked. He hadn’t looked at the time. It didn’t really seem to matter. They weren’t going anywhere that it mattered, so he hadn’t even put his watch on. Somehow the time he spent with Mycroft was enough in itself without marking off the hours.

“It is,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated as Greg finished putting his wet bag away, then stepped close.

Greg wasn’t sure what he wanted until he pulled his hands from his pockets and extended his arms. “Please,” he murmured, and Greg realised his cuffs were still unbuttoned.

He didn’t speak, simply reaching out and doing it as his heart pounded. Unlike yesterday, Greg allowed his fingers to linger on the pale skin before he finished. Mycroft didn’t say anything, but Greg fancied his breathing was not quite even. He raised his eyes when the second button slipped into place, resting his fingers on Mycroft’s wrist.

“Done,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. He eased his hand away, glancing at his watch. “I believe the term would be ‘brunch’,” he said. “If you’re hungry?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied with a grin. “Let’s go downstairs and see what’s happening.”

“Not a lot, I’m sure,” Mycroft said, but his comment lacked the dryness of earlier.

“Why Mycroft, don’t tell me small town life is growing on you?” Greg asked as they made their way down to the main level.

Mycroft looked appalled at the idea. “No.”

Greg grinned. Mycroft wasn’t playing, in terms of trading banter as they had the previous day, but he was certainly more comfortable than when they’d met on the plane. Still quiet, and both of them were more reserved this morning, but less…startled. Greg held his smile for a moment longer as he wondered if Mycroft was still processing what happened last night. It was a big evening, Greg reminded himself. Especially considering he had no idea of what relationship experience Mycroft had. He’d bet it probably wasn’t a lot.

As it turned out, brunch was the perfect term for the food that was available downstairs. They’d missed breakfast, but a limited menu was available in the bar, and it was quiet enough to be comfortable for them to sit together and eat at the small table tucked off to one side.

“Hair of the dog?” Greg asked, nodding at the bar.

“Surely that would be more appropriate for you,” Mycroft replied, piercing the soft yolk of his poached egg.

“True,” Greg allowed. “I reckon I’ll be right with coffee this morning.”

The bar was fairly empty, and once they’d finished eating Greg and Mycroft elected to remain inside instead of braving the wind. It was getting stronger, according to the barman, who didn’t seem too worried about it.

“We could practice BSL if you want,” Greg said. “Quantifiable benefit?”

Mycroft grimaced. “Did I really say that?” he asked, folding his hands together.

“You did,” Greg replied. “Several times, in fact.”

“I have many times,” Mycroft admitted. “I am finding this experience to be difficult to quantify…and yet remarkably beneficial.”

Greg grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. “Shall we?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft said, turning his chair slightly so they sat square to each other.

Greg began slowly with Mycroft; he had no idea what kind of vocabulary the man was working with. As it turned out he was a remarkably quick study. Even so, Greg found excuses to correct his hand shape and position, making sure his fingers didn’t linger but ensuring the minor adjustments were continually required. Mycroft was patient, but from the small smile on his face, he could tell what Greg was doing. Thank God they’d picked a quiet table; Greg wasn’t sure Mycroft would be prepared to accept such flirtatious touches in a more exposed position.

After a while a group from their plane came into the bar, boisterous considering the early hour. Greg recognised them as part of the group he’d watched the football with on his first night. Several waved, and he raised a hand but made no attempt to join them.

“You’re welcome to…go,” Mycroft signed.

Greg raised an eyebrow. “No thank you,” he replied. “I can’t drink anymore. And I think that’s what they’re doing.” He nodded in their direction, where sure enough the bartender was pulling a round of pints.

Mycroft winced. “Too early for me,” he said. His fingers really were made for ASL, Greg thought absently as they danced through the air. It gave him a good excuse to watch, but his mind simply couldn’t stop thinking of other things they could be doing.

“Me too,” Greg said belatedly. “Coffee is fine.”

Mycroft smiled, and they fell into silence again, their hands still. Greg watched the group settle in, but he was still very aware of Mycroft beside him. The coffee here was okay, but he could do with a proper one, and honestly, he wasn’t going to let a day pass while they were here without at least one box of Timbits.

He glanced over at Mycroft. His face reflected polite interest, which Greg was starting to recognise as his default public face. Probably thinking, then. Was he still thinking about yesterday? What was he thinking? Greg wondered if he regretted their evening together. It certainly was a series of unusual decisions for him, from what Greg could tell. Had he made each in turn only to be surprised at where they ended up?

“Gregory?”

Greg blinked, realising he’d zoned out as he pondered what Mycroft might be thinking. No use borrowing trouble. He should just enjoy what today brought. Let it unfold without pushing anything.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said. “Just thinking.”

Mycroft nodded seriously. “While the wind appears to be stronger there is presently no rain. Might I suggest a short walk?”

Greg looked at the rowdy group who were now enthusiastically cheering an ice hockey game on the television. While Mycroft’s expression remained neutral, Greg had the distinct impression he wasn’t enjoying the elevated noise level.

“Yes,” Greg replied. “Great idea.”

They hadn’t been sitting all that long but he was definitely a little antsy. Despite his positive self-talk Greg was anxious to know where Mycroft stood, and it would be easier to have a more personal conversation outside. Even if he was just sharing his own stuff, showing Mycroft he was still interested in them getting to know each other. A background of noisy and increasingly drunk sports fans wasn’t exactly conducive to personal conversations.

“I’ll grab my jacket,” Greg said.

“I’ll meet you there,” Mycroft said, nodding at Simon the security guard sitting unobtrusively on the other side of the bar.

“Of course,” Greg replied. He wound his way past the group, smiling but deferring their invitations to join them. He wasn’t that interested in ice hockey, and even if it had been the FA final, Mycroft would win hands down right now.

_He thinks I’m fascinating._

Greg was still smiling to himself when he realised he’d left without a key earlier. He’d been with Mycroft, and Mycroft had the key. He shrugged, leaning against the wall as he waited. It was a particularly couple-ish thing to do, he mused. Not even considering that he’d need his own key; he just assumed he and Mycroft would be in the same place for the length of their absence.

As they had been.

When Mycroft appeared at the end of the corridor, Greg smiled.

“You don’t have your jacket,” Mycroft said, unlocking the door.

“Didn’t have a key,” Greg replied, following him in.

“Oh, my apologies,” Mycroft said immediately.

“It’s fine,” Greg said. “I’m not complaining. I knew you were coming up here. A couple of minutes waiting here won’t kill me.”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg knew the slight frown was him trying to acclimatise to the idea of Greg not minding the misunderstanding. When he opened his mouth again, Greg was ready for it, placing his hand on Mycroft’s elbow.

“Seriously,” Greg said quietly.

Mycroft closed his mouth, and when he opened it again Greg expected the apology to come anyway.

“Seriously?” Mycroft asked, and the slight smirk told Greg he was poking gentle fun. “Can I assume you’re not genuinely trying to convince me with the single word we agreed people use to preface a white lie?”

Greg grinned at him, the worry in his chest easing as he realised Mycroft had let the moment go. He let his hand linger a second on Mycroft’s elbow before moving away. Neither spoke as they collected jackets and Mycroft picked up both a scarf and a small black box.

As they left, Greg glanced around. “Shouldn’t we wait for Simon?” he asked.

“Neither Simon nor David will be joining us,” Mycroft said, faint spots of colour appearing on his cheeks.

Greg raised his eyebrow but didn’t comment.

“I have a panic alarm,” Mycroft said a shade defensively, “but there has been no indication of any activity of concern in Newfoundland. Relaxing my personal security, especially considering our uncertain time frame here, is not unreasonable.”

“Fair enough,” Greg replied. The swoop in his chest this time was not so unidentifiable. It was excitement and anticipation for the rest of the day. They walked in silence again until Greg asked, “Timmy’s?”

“Where else?” Mycroft said. He glanced at Greg. “The coffee in the bar was…adequate.”

“It was,” Greg replied. “Just barely.” The wind was strong, and he was glad he didn’t bother too much with his hair when he’d finished in the shower. Not that he thought Mycroft would be particularly shallow, but he clearly took pride in his appearance, and Greg didn’t want to push the ‘scruffy’ card too hard. At the thought, something came back to him from earlier.

“Words are important to you, aren’t they?” Greg asked suddenly. When Mycroft looked surprised at the question he clarified, “The thing about starting a sentence with ‘honestly’. And you chose your words carefully. I’m guessing that’s important in your work.”

“It is,” Mycroft said.

“Government’s quite strict about hiring minor officials with excellent vocabularies, are they?” Greg asked.

“As it turns out, yes,” Greg replied.

They walked without talking for a few moments and Greg wondered if Mycroft would answer, or if he was taking time to consider his answer. He was learning that was a thing Mycroft did. It sent a strange sensation spiralling through his chest, knowing that Mycroft put such effort into expressing himself.

_Does he do that with everyone? Or just me? Or am I the only one that bothers to ask?_

“In learning multiple languages,” Mycroft said finally, “the nuance of meaning becomes important. At work I am often required to communicate in…delicate situations, where multiple parties are communicating in their non-native language.” He considered his response before adding, “Yes, the selection of words is important to me.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, but I mean personally.”

Mycroft blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, your answer was all about how important it is in your work.” Greg tucked his hands in his jacket, shrugging his shoulders up against the wind. “But we haven’t talked about your work, and we’ve talk almost entirely in English. And you still stop and think before you talk, and I can see you finding the right words. Not everyone bothers to do that, you know.”

“And you consider this to be an asset?” Mycroft asked cautiously.

“That you bother to think before opening your mouth?” Greg said. “Yeah, of course.” He shook his head. “I spend half my day dealing with situations that could have been avoided if someone thought about what they were saying, or who they were saying it to, or how they were saying it.” He huffed a laugh, which made the next sentence easier to shape. “Used to spend my evenings like that, too. Claudine was…careless. With what she said.”

Mycroft nodded, listening. “Careless?” he asked carefully. “Or…deliberate.”

Greg laughed, but it was a mirthless sound, far more bitter than he cared to admit. “Both, depending on her mood,” he said.

To his relief Mycroft let the topic drop. Greg could feel that he had more questions, and indeed he wanted to ask Mycroft a few things, but now was not the time.

Mycroft held the door against the wind, and the smell of Timbits washed over Greg as they entered Tim Horton’s.

“Afternoon,” Greg said to the woman behind the counter. “Pretty windy out there.”

“Afternoon,” she greeted them both. “Not if you’re a local. Come back in winter and see the snow, that’ll make you see sense.” She grinned at them. “Makes for a quiet afternoon, though, with most of the visitors all huddled inside. Coffee and Timbits?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “We needed to get out of the hotel. Stretch our legs.”

“Fair enough. Black or white coffee, then?” she asked.

“White,” he said. “No sugar, though, I’ll get that from the Timbits.”

“No problem,” she said, turning to Mycroft. “And you’re after the same as yesterday?”

“Yes please,” Mycroft replied.

“Start with these, then,” she said, handing over the Timbits.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. He and Greg opened the box, grinning at each other as they started eating them right there at the counter. Greg wondered if Mycroft would even have considered standing in a coffee shop sharing a box of donuts before he’d landed in Gander. Now here he was, sharing conspiratorial glances over a box as a woman who thought he was gay made their coffees.

Was that a good thing? Mycroft was broadening his horizons, as he’d toasted the previous night, and Greg usually thought of that as positive growth, but how did Mycroft feel about it? Was it too far from his comfortable self? It didn’t seem to be, if his smile was anything to go by. It lit up his eyes, and Greg found himself drinking it in.

The barista broke into Greg’s thoughts.

“Here you go,” she said, offering their coffees. She looked at Mycroft. “You need some more Timbits?”

“I think we do,” Mycroft replied, showing the almost empty box to Greg.

“Almost had an argument about it yesterday,” Greg agreed. “Better be safe.”

A voice behind them said loudly, “Trouble in paradise, then? Not surprising, with people like you.”

Greg turned, blinking at the heavily made-up woman behind them. “I beg your pardon?”

The English accent was strong, marking her as a visitor. She sneered at Mycroft then simpered at Greg. “Find yourself a girlfriend, honey, and you won’t have to worry about that kind of thing.”

“What?” Greg said, still not entirely sure he was missing a joke or something. Surely she wasn’t serious? Greg was startled to see such a fierce scowl, then realised while her words were aimed at him, the expression was particularly for Mycroft. Her words rang out across the now silent coffee shop.

“You don’t need to settle for a pansy like this. The Lord will deal with him. Mistakes happen, after all. A big strong man like you could get any woman he wanted.”

Greg’s jaw slackened at the malice in her voice. He blinked at her, entirely unable to even process her words.

“I beg your pardon?”

The words came from behind the counter, the indignation strong and making her voice carry across the floor.

“What?” the woman said, turning her attention to the barista, who looked outraged.

“You need to apologise,” she said, her tone firm. “We will not tolerate that here.”

“I do _not_,” she said. She pointed at Greg and Mycroft. “That unnaturalness is not part of God’s plan. It’s an abomination, and if-”

She didn’t get any further, a heavy hand landing on her shoulder and startling her into momentary silence.

“Howdy,” a voice boomed, and Greg blinked again, turning his attention. The men from the far table had walked over without anybody noticing, and now the Mayor was standing with a very unimpressed expression on his face, flanked by his equally grim looking friends.

“Get your hand off me,” the woman said, shaking him off.

“My name’s Claude,” he said, “and I’m the Mayor of this here town.” He nodded at Greg and Mycroft. “If you gentlemen are finished your transaction, can I suggest you take yourselves a seat?” He looked out the window. “Might just take this outside where you won’t need to deal with it.”

“Thank you,” Greg said. The woman behind the counter had packed their coffee and Timbits in a bag, and he shot her a grateful look as he grabbed it with one hand and Mycroft’s hand with the other. He’d barely registered Mycroft’s face except that he was white, and his hand didn’t even curve around Greg’s as he clutched it. Greg headed around the corner of the shop where he’d spotted a couple of booths, dragging Mycroft behind him.

“No,” Mycroft said, suddenly tightening his hand. “I need…outside. Please.” His eyes were suddenly pinned to Greg’s, begging him to listen.

“Sure,” Greg said, changing direction. They had to pass the Mayor still trying to escort that woman out, and he shot Claude an apologetic look as they passed.

“Repent!” the woman shouted after them. “Beg forgiveness and the Lord will…” Greg didn’t hear what the Lord might do as the door closed behind Claude and the woman. Thank God the weather was so bad, Greg thought, and the coffee shop was practically empty. Almost nobody had to see it. The wind whipped past, tugging at their clothing, but he pulled Mycroft along until he spied a path heading through the brush. Taking a punt he headed down it, relaxing as it opened into a tiny viewing area over the water. There was a seat and not much more, which was perfect. The brush was only cut back enough to allow people to reach the seat, and the protection it offered from the wind and prying eyes was exactly what Greg wanted.

“You okay?” Greg asked. He’d barely looked at Mycroft since they left Tim Horton’s but he still looked as Greg expected. Pale, eyes wide and unfocussed. A slight tremor every few seconds.

Greg swore to himself. That bloody woman…He hoped the Mayor had some strong words for her, and even more, he hoped she wasn’t on their flight. He wouldn’t be responsible for his actions if she started on that kind of nonsense again.

“I’m thinking you underplayed some of the…earlier stuff,” Greg said, annoyed at himself when his words made no sense. He took a deep breath. “Derogatory wasn’t even close, was it?”

Mycroft blinked at him, eyes looking right through Greg.

“Fuck, Mycroft,” Greg said, his voice practically a whisper. He could feel himself almost panicking at this Mycroft. Clearly, the ‘derogatory’ he was referring to was more like ‘heavily abusive’. This was like a PTSD response, Greg reckoned; he had a mate who’d been in the Army and had explained how something that seemed innocuous to other people could trigger him to basically zone out. Shaking, flashbacks, he’d once vomited on himself, John had told Greg. Basically lost control of his brain for a while. Protecting himself, was how Greg interpreted it, but from the outside it looked like shutting down.

Greg swore again, under his breath. And they’d been talking about the nuance of language earlier. There was nothing nuanced about the kind of language that foul woman had been using. His stomach clenched as he looked at Mycroft. Was he in shock? About to fall apart? What could Greg do?

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Greg said quietly. “You don’t have to repeat it, or explain it… just…just tell me if I’m right. Please.” He swallowed. “I just…I can see you’re not okay. And you shouldn’t be, that woman was revolting…but if I can do anything, or you need anything…”

Mycroft shook his head slowly.

“You don’t need anything?” Greg checked.

Another head shake. No.

“Okay,” Greg said. “Well, then, I’m just going to…sit here. Beside you.” He did exactly that. “And I’ll drink my coffee, and if anyone comes I’ll get rid of them.” He looked over, heart aching to see the perfectly blank expression on Mycroft’s face. “We can stay here as long as you need.”

He made sure he wasn’t touching Mycroft, putting the box of Timbits between them, and took his coffee in his hands. The cup was warm, a contrast to the cold of the wooden bench, seeping through his jeans. For a long time they sat, the bench making his arse cold and numb, the coffee helping warm him from the inside. It was peaceful sitting here, the wind audible but not too strong; white capped waves danced in front of them as the water moved slowly past. Greg idly wondered what he was looking at. He could see the other side so it wasn’t the ocean, or at least not the width of the Atlantic. Maybe this was one of the inlets he’d seen on the map. He made a mental note to try and find out, but he wasn’t too worried about that right now.

He was mainly worried about Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary  
Greg and Mycroft wake late, quiet and comfortable. Mycroft asks Greg to button his cuffs again. They eat and practice ASL in the bar downstairs before deciding to walk to Tim Horton’s for coffee. Mycroft takes a panic button instead of a security person.  
They talk about the importance of language on the way over. When they arrive, the server is lovely but a visitor behind them spouts religious homophobic language. The Mayor and his friends escort her out, but Mycroft has a panic attack. He and Greg leave, and they end up sitting in a secluded spot overlooking the water together.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: homophobic church people (short, vague description); bi-erasure (mentioned in passing). Summary at the end if you'd prefer.

The man beside him had sat entirely still for ages, and just when Greg was thinking he’d have to stand up and try and get some feeling back in his arse, Mycroft spoke.

“Gregory?”

“I’m here,” Greg said immediately.

Mycroft nodded, though he was still staring out over the water. His face looked slightly less pale, Greg thought, but that could be the cold.

“Do you want your coffee?” Greg asked.

It took a while for him to answer, but Mycroft finally nodded again. Greg cradled the full cup, making sure Mycroft’s hands had the weight of it before he let go. They’d been shaking, but having something heavy to hold seemed to help, and he watched as Mycroft lifted it to his lips.

“It’s probably not all that warm,” Greg said. “I could go and get you another one if you want.”

“No,” Mycroft replied. With a start, he looked down, blinking at the cup in his hand, and Greg could see him trying to figure out what he was holding. Slowly, those eyes came around to him and Greg smiled, wondering what was going through his head.

“Hi,” Greg said quietly. “You back?”

“I think so,” Mycroft said. He was quiet for a while, and Greg could almost see him considering what to say. “I apologise,” he began. Greg shook his head, but Mycroft continued. “I do not deal well with conflict. I tend to retreat.” He swallowed. “I hope I did not unduly disturb you.”

“Nope,” Greg said. “Well, I was worried, but I figured you just needed some time.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. He sipped at his coffee again, making a slight face. “That woman’s comments brought back some…memories.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I figured.”

_Language is so important, isn’t it, gorgeous?_

Greg shook himself. _Not_ the time to figure out terms of endearment.

Mycroft looked out over the water for a while before speaking. “My parents are active in their church,” he said. Greg noticed the careful use of pronouns – it was _their_ church, not Mycroft’s – and his practiced, neutral tone.

_Language…_

“Their beliefs are deeply rooted,” he continued, “and a certain rhythm of language was…constant.”

“Your parents?” Greg asked in disbelief.

_Jesus._

“Yes,” Mycroft replied stiffly. “And their congregation, with whom we socialised almost exclusively. When it became clear I was not…an overtly masculine person,” he said, the words stilted, “their fear about my potential sexual preference was clear. My lack of interest in the eligible young women they paraded before me did nothing but exacerbate their fear.” He considered the next words. “Their language was old fashioned. Derogatory. Damning.”

“Like that woman,” Greg said.

“Like that woman,” Mycroft agreed.

“But you went off to university, right?” Greg asked hesitantly. “Did you find some people there?”

The smile that flashed across Mycroft’s face was brief and mocking. “I entered university at the age of fifteen,” he said. “Apart from my own desire to go unnoticed, I don’t think a single person paid me any attention beyond the initial mild surprise at my presence.”

Greg blinked. “You didn’t have any friends?” he asked tentatively.

“No,” Mycroft replied with the careful evenness of someone hiding deep emotions. “I concentrated on my studies.”

“Right,” Greg said, and he felt silent. He had no idea what to say. How lonely that experience must have been. He was still a child, really, navigating an adult world, and with only his parents’ cruel words to accompany him as he figured out who he was.

“Once I graduated, I found employment immediately,” Mycroft said. “I was skilled and highly focussed, and moved quickly up within the organisation. It made me a target. With a lack of facts to exploit, rumours had to suffice. My lack of personal connections made belittling whispers about my preferences common.”

“I bet they didn’t hurt any less,” Greg murmured.

“No,” Mycroft said quietly. He sat silently for a moment. “Nobody has ever…I have never spoken about this,” he said.

Greg sat, aware of the weight of this moment. He didn’t want to break the silence, not that he knew what to say at all. Someone had told him once that sitting quietly with someone who was grieving was a powerful thing. He hoped it was true in this situation, too. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was use the wrong words and make things worse.

“I can assume your experience was dissimilar,” Mycroft said finally.

“Yeah,” Greg said, shifting his weight. “I mean, there wasn’t a gay scene, really, where I lived. People still called each other…bad names,” he said, avoiding saying any specifically, “so I knew it wasn’t something you admitted to, not in my neighbourhood. But when I was old enough, I’d go into London. Found a bar, got hit on by a guy, realised that was a place you could go if that was something you wanted. But nobody talked about it at home, and I was interested in girls too, so I played that up a bit until I left school. Moved to London, hung out with a group where nobody cared who you dated. We still copped a bit on the streets, but nothing like what you’re talking about. It wasn’t personal. If that makes sense.”

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted, “It does.” He looked down at his hands, a frown crossing his brow. “It has been a long time since I have sought out company for pleasure,” he said, the language stilted and achingly impersonal. “In a platonic way or otherwise.”

“And, otherwise,” Greg said, using the same careful language, “that…happened?”

Mycroft flicked a gaze at him, the barest edge of amusement on his face. “Yes. Discretion is one of the perks of my job,” he said. “I have had the opportunity to seek certain company,” he admitted. “But not often, and in a physical sense only.”

Greg swallowed. Right. So not a virgin…but the idea of having sex without that emotional connection for your whole life made his heart ache.

“Right,” he managed. His usual curse didn’t seem enough, but he gave it a go anyway.

_Jesus._

_JE-sus._

Greg swallowed, rubbing his palms firmly down his thighs. “I know I’ve said this before,” he said, “but if you’d rather I backed off, I mean, I’d underst-”

Mycroft’s hand landed over his, warm where he’d held the coffee, firm where Greg expected hesitance. “No,” he said. “Please…don’t.” He swallowed. “Please don’t take my inexperience as a lack of interest.” His eyes roamed Greg’s face, almost greedy in their effort to take in every detail. “You are a remarkably attractive person,” he whispered, cheeks staining pink with the admission. “And I can hardly believe the situation in which I find myself.”

Greg smiled. Mycroft’s smile was tentative but it met his nonetheless. The understanding flowed between them and finally Greg felt like this was the right moment.

There seemed to be only one response.

He was so sure, but still moved cautiously. The actions were unconscious, but he slowed his breathing, allowing his eyes to drift to Mycroft’s mouth and back up, studying his expression.

“Your eyes are beautiful,” Greg murmured, the words entirely unplanned.

Mycroft blinked, flinching when Greg’s hand came up to his cheek but leaning into it when he realised what it was. His eyes were still locked on Greg’s, taking his lead. Another example of trust, Greg realised. It really was very attractive…and arousing. He refocussed, and holding Mycroft’s eyes, leaned closer, still checking this was right. Mycroft would hardly be familiar with the unspoken body language in this situation, so Greg took a deep, measured breath and said what he’d been thinking since Mycroft turned from the window on the plane to calmly meet his eyes.

“So you wouldn’t mind,” Greg said, “if I kissed you. At some point.”

“No,” came the response immediately, the words tumbling over each other. “I would not mind.”

“Good,” Greg whispered, and closed the last few centimetres between them.

His lips were soft, and cold; the wind wasn’t strong here but the air was still cool. Greg let his lips settle on Mycroft’s, concentrating on breathing steadily and not pushing for anything more than this careful touch. It wasn’t a lot, yet Greg could feel his world shift as Mycroft’s warm exhalation brushed across his cheek. Another moment and Greg shifted back, needing to see that this was okay by Mycroft.

Opening his eyes as their contact broke, Greg focussed. Mycroft’s eyes were still closed, and Greg sat back carefully, easing his hand away from Mycroft’s face. Wondering if it was alright until those grey eyes opened and met his own, the smile reaching them immediately.

“Was that alright?” Greg asked. Even with Mycroft’s smile, he wanted to be sure.

_Unambiguous language._

“Yes,” Mycroft said quietly. “More than alright.”

“You’re the language expert,” Greg reminded him. “What’s a better description?”

Mycroft blinked at him. “I have no idea,” he said, and sounded entirely happy with that. “In seven languages I can’t find the right word.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Greg asked, wanting to be sure.

“It is,” Mycroft replied, holding Greg’s eyes with his own, affection clear. He was still very close, Greg thought, close enough for one of them to lean forward a little and repeat the kiss, or perhaps…

“I saved you the last Timbit,” Greg said, hoping to break the intense moment.

Mycroft blinked, processing for a moment before he looked down. “Just one?” he asked.

“Oi!” Greg replied indignantly. “I was worried. Stress eating, you could call it.”

“There is another word,” Mycroft murmured, popping it in his mouth whole.

“Really?” Greg replied, raising an eyebrow.

Mycroft finished chewing and swallowed the donut before saying, “I believe it’s pronounced, ‘greed’, Gregor- oh!”

Greg cut him off with a kiss, cut short by the smile he couldn’t keep down at the gasp from Mycroft. It wasn’t as careful as their first kiss, but Mycroft didn’t seem to mind; he definitely swayed towards Greg when he pulled back. “I hope you don’t mind if I do that sometimes now,” he said smugly. “Just when yo-”

Mycroft had replied in kind, and Greg immediately understood why he’d gasped; the unexpected press was wonderful. Mycroft didn’t pull away, and Greg threaded his hand around the back of his head, holding him there for a moment as the kiss deepened. Mycroft was obviously inexperienced, but Greg still felt arousal curling in his belly at the slide of their mouths, and when Mycroft’s tongue made a tentative foray, Greg groaned. The sound made Mycroft pull back, his eyes concerned until Greg smiled at him.

“You taste like Timbits,” Greg murmured, another smile breaking over his face as Mycroft blushed.

“I don’t think I have any objections,” Mycroft said. “Provided we are in a private space.”

“Of course,” Greg replied.

The smile they shared was intimate and Greg wanted to lean in to kiss Mycroft again, but they both looked up at the same moment as rain started falling on them.

“Time to go?” Greg asked.

“I believe so,” Mycroft replied.

They turned to leave, the rain increasing fast until it was bucketing down. Greg pointed and they barrelled into Tim Horton’s, shaking out their jackets and laughing breathlessly as the rain sheeted down behind them.

“Back into Tim Horton’s,” Mycroft said, leaning into Greg as he spoke.

“You’re back!” the server said, her eyes lighting up. “I’m pleased to see you!”

“Hi,” Greg said. “I didn’t really thank you earlier. I’m Greg, this is Mycroft.”

“Crystal,” she said, coming around the counter to speak to them. “I am so sorry about that woman-”

“No, please,” Mycroft said, cutting her off with a smile. “It’s clear from her accent she is not a local, and her behaviour is not your responsibility.”

“Still,” Crystal said, wincing, “that is not what things are like around here.” She smiled at them both. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so but you make a lovely couple.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft and they smiled. “Thank you,” Greg said, happiness blooming in his chest at Mycroft’s acceptance of the compliment.

“That’s very kind,” Mycroft repeated.

“Well this rain’ll last a while,” Crystal told them. “Can I get you another coffee while you’re waiting? On the house?”

“Sure,” Greg shrugged. “Myc?”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, but spoke to Crystal. “Certainly. Thank you.”

Crystal stepped back behind the counter to make their coffee, and Greg turned as someone else approached them. It was Claude, the Mayor.

“Nice to see you two back,” he said gruffly. “We’ve had a word with that woman and she shouldn’t be a problem again.” He shook his head. “Not the kind of place we run here in Gander.”

“I can see that,” Greg replied. “I’m Greg Lestrade, this is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Would you care to join us?” Claude asked. He was sitting with two other men who smiled as they arrived.

“This is Greg and Mycroft,” Claude said, introducing them.

“Dwight,” one man said.

“Doug,” said the other.

They both nodded, offering identical greetings to Greg and Mycroft.

“Greg. Mycroft.”

“Greg. Mycroft.”

The unusual greeting made Greg smile as he and Mycroft pulled chairs up to the small table.

“So you’re off that plane, then?” Dwight asked.

“Yes,” Greg replied. “Not part of our plan, but we’ve seen some of your town and it’s great.”

“Out to the museum?” Doug asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “We didn’t realise what a big part Gander played in Operation Yellow Ribbon.”

“Ah, it was a busy week,” Claude said with typical understatement. “But everyone pitched in.” He shrugged. “I think people think it’s more impressive than it was.”

“Not to those people,” Greg pointed out. “And we’ve seen some of it, while we’ve been here.”

“Newfoundlanders are still Newfoundlanders,” Claude said. “Though there were a fair few more when they left, mind you.”

“What?” Greg said.

Crystal brought their coffees over, and since the rain had not abated and there was nobody else in the shop, she joined them. “They screeched-in a whole lot of people,” she explained. “You do the ceremony, you become an honorary Newfoundlander.”

“Right,” Greg said. “I think they’re planning one tonight?” He glanced outside. “Assuming the weather eases up.”

The locals grinned at each other.

“What?” Greg asked again.

“I doubt it will,” Claude said. “And it won’t stop locals either way.”

“Hurricane’s not going to hit us directly but this wind’ll be strong for another day or so,” Doug said, leaning back in his chair. “I work at air traffic control. Planes’re grounded until Friday at least.”

“The rain might slow,” Dwight added. “Possibly.”

“Is the screech-in at Matty’s Bar?” Crystal asked.

“I don’t know,” Greg replied. “The bartender at our hotel was telling us about it.”

“Probably is,” Claude said. “That’s the place to be on a Thursday night around here.” He looked at the other men. “We’ll get ourselves over there tonight then.” He looked at Greg and Mycroft. “You two think you’ll come down?”

“I’m not sure,” Greg said, glancing at Mycroft. His expression had shut down at the idea, and Greg was fairly sure why. As accepting as this small group might be, a bar full of people full of alcohol was a completely different scenario. As Greg looked around the group, he could see the others looking at each other meaningfully.

“You know,” Doug said with a nod, “Crystal’s girlfriend will be there. And I think Matty’s daughter and her wife.” He looked at Crystal. “Anyone else we knows?”

“Kevin is in town! Do you remember?” Crystal said suddenly. She pointed at Claude. “You screeched him in!” She turned to Greg, explaining, “His boyfriend was called Kevin too. It was confusing.”

“I didn’t know he was back!” Dwight said. “Owes me a beer from last year.”

“Well you’d better come and collect it,” Crystal told him. “You know he’s good for it. Only came back to check on the scholarship fund.”

“Well, we’ll think about it,” Greg said.

The conversation drifted away, and he and Mycroft stayed for another hour or so. The rain eased off a little, and they really did need to go and get changed and think about some real food. Another coffee and he’d be vibrating, too.

“Thanks,” he said, waving to everyone.

“See you tonight,” Crystal said pointedly.

“Wow,” Greg muttered as they skirted the edges of the building, staying undercover for as long as possible. He glanced up at the end of the canopy. “Somehow we’re suddenly in the gayest town in Newfoundland.”

He glanced at Mycroft, unsure how his joke would go down.

“They certainly did seem to go to pains to show us how accepting they are,” Mycroft said thoughtfully.

Okay, so the humour was lost on him, but at least Mycroft was willing to talk about it a little.

“I think they were trying to be helpful,” Greg said.

Mycroft didn’t reply, and they ran back to their hotel, panting and laughing as they finally made it into the foyer. “Well at least we don’t have to go out in that again soon,” Greg said. He looked over at the reception desk and burst out laughing again.

“Was something amusing?” Mycroft asked. He looked over, blinking at the new sign.

_COME TO MATTY’S BAR TONIGHT FOR A NFLD EXPERIENCE_

_BUS LEAVES HERE 8PM_

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Well,” Greg said, “I need a hot shower and dry clothes.” He smiled at Mycroft. “You too?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

They walked past reception and up the stairs. Greg could feel himself beginning to shiver by the time he was inside.

“Did you want to shower first?” Greg asked, removing his wet jacket and tossing it on the bed.

Mycroft looked at him, raising one eyebrow. “You look cold,” he said.

“Well yeah,” Greg replied, smiling through his shaking jaw. “But you probably are too.”

Mycroft smiled, not speaking as he removed his jacket, hanging it carefully on the end of the bed before he turned to Greg.

“Perhaps,” he said, “we could both warm up.”

He stepped close, wrapping his arms carefully around Greg. His face pressed into Greg’s shoulder, warm breath puffing down his collar. Greg had frozen at Mycroft’s words, not sure what he was thinking until he felt the gentle press of Mycroft’s body against his, arms tentative until Greg finally reacted, bringing his arms up to return the hug. He could feel his tremors and tried hard to control them, very aware of his shaking body against Mycroft’s.

Mycroft lifted his head, his mouth close to Greg’s ear.

“Relax,” Mycroft murmured, the warmth of his breath skating down Greg’s neck.

The next shiver was purely a reaction to that sensation. Greg wondered if Mycroft knew that. He took a deep breath and made a conscious effort to relax his muscles as he exhaled. He felt himself melt into Mycroft, and Mycroft’s arms tightened as their breathing slowed and fell into a joint rhythm. The warmth was seeping into his body, though the shivering still intermittently rolled through him. Mycroft’s slow patient nature was shining here, as he stood still, holding Greg as they breathed together.

It felt beautiful to have someone give their time to him. There was no rush to this, no demands to do anything but accept what Mycroft was offering. Greg couldn’t remember the last time he had felt worthwhile the way he did right here and now. He sighed and closed his eyes, arms tightening around Mycroft’s neck as his head dropped to lean on his shoulder, too.

After he’d floated for a while, Mycroft eased away just enough to raise his head and speak again. “We should shower.”

Greg nodded, ignoring the possible interpretation of a joint shower. He didn’t want to stop doing this, surrounded as he was by the sense of Mycroft all around him, but of course they couldn’t stay here.

“Thank you,” Greg murmured. He raised his face, realising he was speaking into Mycroft’s neck. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft replied, turning his head. Greg’s heart skipped as Mycroft’s mouth pressed against his, their arms all tightening again at the sensation. In the privacy of their shared room, the possibilities were expanded. Even though Greg didn’t really think a single gentle kiss would go anywhere, the fact that it could was enough to elevate his response. He wondered if Mycroft realised.

When he eased back, Mycroft smiled at Greg, slow and content. “You go first,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg opened his eyes, smiling at the flush moving slowly up Mycroft’s cheeks as they looked at each other over the small space.

“Okay,” he replied, unable to think of anything else. “I won’t be long.”

Mycroft smiled, releasing Greg carefully so he could head for the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary – yes it’s long, lots happened ;)  
Greg and Mycroft sit quietly until Mycroft is recovered. He explains some of his past. His parents and their church used language Mycroft describes as, “old fashioned. Derogatory. Damning.” towards him. He made it to university at fifteen, and then right into work, where he found his rising star status made him the target of homophobic slurs. He admits he’s not a virgin, but his experiences have been rather perfunctory.  
Greg shares his own story: discovered the gay club scene in the city but played up his interest in girls at home. Greg asks, and Mycroft consents, and they kiss several times by the water.  
They go back to Timmy’s for more Timbits and the locals check they’re okay and invite them out. Mycroft is reluctant but the locals make a point of mentioning their friends and family who are gay will be there. When they arrive home, Greg and Mycroft find there will be a bus leaving from the hotel for the bar later that night. They don’t really discuss whether they’ll go or not but Mycroft doesn’t appear as definitively against it as he was earlier.


	15. Chapter 15

Greg found himself smiling the whole time he was in the shower. There wasn’t anything specific; or if there was it was as simple as _Mycroft._ He couldn’t put a finger on one moment, but when Mycroft look at him he felt special. Like he was worth the effort to be really looked at. It was something he hadn’t felt for a long time.

They’d barely kissed. Hell, Greg had had more physical contact with men whose name he hadn’t even known in his earlier days. This though…even before they’d kissed, the previous night had been magical. Watching Mycroft slowly relax as they talked, the gentle way he began to warm into the conversation. It made Greg feel the slow thrill of something important developing. Christ, he didn’t want to leave here. It was as though something had grounded them here, taken them both off the treadmill of their real lives and just given them both the space and time to get to know each other.

He already knew he was going to miss Mycroft when they had to leave.

With a groan to himself, Greg shut off the shower, aware that Mycroft would be waiting for him. With a wry grin he hoped Mycroft didn’t think he was wanking in here – that wasn’t a conversation he really wanted to have right now, though the general idea did make arousal curl in his stomach for a moment.

_No._

It was enough that Mycroft had kissed him earlier. Had instigated their hug even, easing his arms around Greg slowly, as though Greg might not want to be hugged. He couldn’t imagine not wanting to be hugged by Mycroft, and Greg was certain there weren’t many people who had seen this side of the reserved redhead. Once he relaxed he was funny and insightful, but Greg doubted many were allowed in. His cold, professional assessment was one thing; this warm humanity was entirely another, and it fascinated him.

“Bathroom’s yours,” Greg said, dropping his dirty clothes on the bed. Mycroft was sitting in the armchair beside the window again, looking outside as though it was a million miles away. He didn’t start, but took a moment before he looked at Greg.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. It was another second or two before he moved to stand up. Greg watched him sort through his bag, collecting clean socks and underwear before sidling past Greg into the bathroom. He still seemed quiet, and Greg wanted to ask if he was okay, but the door closed behind him and the moment was gone.

Once he’d sorted his clothes, Greg sat back on his bed. After Mycroft was gone, he’d thought suddenly of Adrienne. He wondered what was happening in Dallas. What had he said to Delilah when they’d spoken? Something like _I don’t know when I’ll be able to call again._ So she wasn’t expecting his call – but she didn’t know what was happening, either. The urge to pick up the phone was strong, but Greg stopped himself, thinking it through.

He wouldn’t do it if Mycroft was in the room, those eyes gently challenging him to consider why he was calling. While Mycroft hadn’t made him promise not to call, their conversation had certainly made him think about how much space he was giving the family he’d created. The whole point of it was that he would return to London eventually, leaving Adrienne with a support network in Dallas, and a friend who sent her a little money regularly from England. How would he know if that worked unless he gave it space to work? In some ways this was a great opportunity to check on it. He trusted Delilah, and the others a little further afield were genuine and trustworthy – he’d done checks, both legal and questionably so.

Greg took a deep breath, releasing it and accepting that he was better off not calling for now. Even if something had happened, Delilah would take care of it. With Lewis dead he couldn’t imagine anything other than dumb luck that might happen to upset the applecart, anyway.

“Gregory?”

Greg blinked, looking up to see Mycroft standing before him. He’d just left the bathroom, obviously, and his eyes remained on Greg for a moment before he deposited his wet bag and dirty clothes in his bag. The damp hair was beginning to curl behind his ear again, and with a thump Greg’s heart reminded him he was allowed to reach for it now. With a smile, he stood up, walking over to Mycroft, watching carefully in case his attentions were unwelcome.

Grey eyes held his, and as Greg came close, Mycroft stiffened a little.

“Your hair curls right here,” Greg said, allowing the words to hang in the air before he reached for Mycroft. He had the distinct impression Mycroft was nervous about something. Moreso than he had been before the showers. He relaxed as Greg’s finger traced the curl behind his ear, and leaned into it when Greg took the excuse to kiss him (_opportunity_, it was an opportunity). The kiss was soft again, and Greg hoped reassuring, so he deliberately didn’t push anything. Hell, he hadn’t thought further than enjoying this. And it was enjoyable; Greg was cataloguing every sensation. His hand had settled behind Mycroft’s ear, and he felt a hand press into his waist. Knowing there was nothing else expected allowed Greg to relax. For a few moments while Mycroft was in the shower and Greg was worrying about what was happening in Dallas, it was as though he was alone here.

Except that he wasn’t. Mycroft was here, and in the most remarkable of coincidences, he and Greg had ended up not only sharing a room, but kissing gently as they reconnected. Other than sleeping, the only time they’d been apart since the first night was their showers. A small voice suggested a solution to that, but Greg pushed it down.

Now was not the time for that particular idea.

Instead Greg felt Mycroft ease back and he relaxed his hand, allowing it to slide back until his fingers were tracing the shape of that curl again. They both blinked and Greg smiled, watching Mycroft focus on him. His pupils were a little wider than usual, he noticed.

“I know,” Mycroft said, a belated response to Greg’s earlier comment. “I prefer it not to, but a few errant locks are harder to tame than others.” The words were quiet and Greg recognised the admission. It was just for him, and the curl in his belly was almost the same as when he’d thought about them sharing a shower.

_He’s adorable when he admits to being human._

“I guess they are,” Greg replied. “Not something I’ve ever had to worry about.” He pointed at his own head, using the gesture as a reason to lift his hand from Mycroft’s skin. _Don’t want to crowd him. _“Early silver, though. At least I’m finally old enough for it to make sense now.”

“Early?” Mycroft asked.

“Started in my twenties,” Greg told him. A small part of him was quite happy that Mycroft hadn’t stepped away. _He’s comfortable standing close._ “Hated it, then got used to it, and now I’m finally old enough for it.”

Mycroft smiled. “I like it,” he said, and the gentle compliment made Greg smile.

“Thanks,” he said. Impulsively, he turned and sat on the bed, patting the bed beside himself. Mycroft hesitated but settled beside Greg, taking his hand when it was offered. His thumb made a slow sweep back and forth up and down as Greg began to speak.

“So,” Greg said, “what do you think you’d like to do this evening?”

Mycroft paused and Greg reviewed what he’d said and winced.

“I meant the screech-in,” Greg added hastily.

“I know,” Mycroft replied, smiling to himself. “Although,” he said carefully, “there might be alternative interpretation.”

Greg swallowed.

_Jesus…_

“I have been thinking about the screech-in since we left Tim Horton’s,” Mycroft said, the smirk from his early comment lingering for a moment. “Sitting in a bar is not my usual experience.”

“Okay,” Greg said as neutrally as possible.

“Most of our time here has been outside my usual experience,” Mycroft continued, smiling again as he looked at their joined hands, “and I see no reason to change the status quo.”

“So, you’re in?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied quietly. “I’m in.”

“Are you sure?” Greg asked.

“I am,” Mycroft replied, and he thought for a moment before adding, “I think the conversation at Tim Horton’s made me feel more secure in this community.”

“Wow, okay,” Greg said. “That’s amazing.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. He hesitated. “I may change my mind,” he said, glancing at Greg. “Depending on…what happens.”

“Well I’ll follow you,” Greg said. “If you want to leave, or whatever, just tell me.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured. He raised his eyes to meet Greg’s, and they both moved in to kiss again. It was brief, but Greg felt the warm glow inside him nevertheless.

“Dinner, then?” Greg asked. “We’ll have time before the bus leaves.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “Perhaps we could chose something less adventurous this time?”

“Yes,” Greg said. “And probably no wine tonight.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft murmured.

+++

They ate at the restaurant again, choosing fish and chips as a safer option this time. Both opted for water; Mycroft offered a toast to sobriety and Greg rolled his eyes, grinning.

By the time they were done, it was almost time for the bus to leave, and the entrance foyer was packed with people. Mycroft and Greg stood towards the back of the crowd, close but not touching. Greg was super aware of Mycroft shifting as the driver arrived to generalised cheers and applause. They allowed most of the people on ahead of them, David nodding as he followed them onto the bus, sitting across the aisle. The trip was short but Greg could tell most of their busmates had been drinking already. There was a fair amount of loud talking and some kind of singing; it sounded like a football anthem but Greg couldn’t be sure.

“Sounds like it’ll be a rowdy one,” Greg murmured to Mycroft. “We’ll have to find those locals when we get in.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. He looked a little less comfortable than earlier, but still willing to go into the bar. Greg wanted to take his hand, but refrained. They hadn’t really talked about PDAs and he didn’t want to exacerbate Mycroft’s discomfort.

When they arrived Mycroft exchanged several words with David, who nodded.

“He’ll find the exits and then keep an eye on the crowd at large,” Mycroft replied. He glanced up at Greg. “I don’t imagine my security here requires the extent of his expertise.”

“Right,” Greg replied with a grin at the formal phrasing. They moved into the bar, and he was relieved when one of the locals (Doug? He thought it was Doug) waved him over. He grabbed Mycroft’s hand, by far the easiest way to seize his attention with the pounding music above them, and steered them towards the group.

“Hi,” he said, grinning around the table and releasing Mycroft’s hand as soon as they arrived. “You guys knew to beat the bus here, then?”

“O’course,” Claude replied. “Pull up a chair, m’boys.”

Greg nodded around the circle, recognising some faces but relieved when Claude took it on himself to introduce everyone.

“You know Dwight, Doug and Crystal,” he said, “and this is Sharon, Crystal’s girlfriend. Sam is Matty and Brenda’s daughter and that’s her wife, Martha.” Claude was pointing to the people to go with each face and Greg’s mind was whirling with all the new names. When he glanced over he could see Mycroft had his ‘public relations’ face on, nodding politely to each person.

“And this is Matty,” Claude said as a smiling man came up to their table. “This is his bar.”

“Evenin’,” Matty said easily. “I can see Claude’s taking good care of you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft replied.

“Has anyone seen Kevin?” Matty asked the table, as Greg and Mycroft took chairs between Doug and the Mayor. “He was meant to be here before the buses came in.”

“No,” the others replied.

“Well tell him he needs to get his own damn beers when he gets here,” Matty said easily.

“Kevin was here in 2001, right?” Greg asked Doug.

“Yeah,” Doug replied. “Came back later with a scholarship fund he and another passenger had created.”

“And did Crystal say his boyfriend’s name was Kevin too?” Greg asked.

Doug grinned. “Yep,” he said. “Pretty confusing.”

“I reckon,” Greg muttered. He glanced over at Mycroft. “Do you want something to drink?”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Really?”

Greg shrugged. He’d kind of thought a drink might relax Mycroft. “One drink?” he asked again.

Mycroft sighed with what Greg knew was overacted drama. “One drink,” he conceded.

“So, how long have you been together?” Sam asked brightly across the table before Greg could get up.

“Not long,” Mycroft said with a sideways glance at Greg. “We met on the plane, actually.”

“What, the plane that’s stranded here?” Sam asked with a disbelieving laugh.

“Yes,” Greg and Mycroft replied together.

“Crystal, I thought you said these two were a couple on Wednesday?” Sam asked, poking her.

“Yes,” Crystal replied, only half turning away from her conversation. “They were.”

Sam raised her eyebrows at them. “So you’re on a secret holiday, then?” she asked with a grin. “Don’t worry, nobody here’s gonna make a fuss.”

“We’ve noticed that,” Greg said. “But we really did meet on the plane, in fact…” he trailed off as Sam just laughed, raised her glass and turned to join Crystal’s conversation.

“I’m not sure they entirely believe us,” Greg said dryly.

“She gave the impression there has been some discussion. Of us,” Mycroft said, shifting uncomfortably.

Greg glanced at him, wishing he could do something to ease his discomfort. His ideas, most of which involved some kind of physical contact, would probably just make things worse.

“I’ll go get our beers,” Greg told him instead.

Before Greg could get up, the whole table erupted in a cheer as a man walked over, raising his hands in the air and grinning. “Kevin’s back!” he announced.

“You owe me a beer!” Dwight shouted over the noise and Kevin nodded. Dwight leaned over to Greg and mimed drinking with a questioning expression.

Greg nodded, holding up two fingers. “Thanks,” he said to Dwight.

“This is Newfoundland,” Dwight said with a grin. “If the first beer’s not on the house you’re on the wrong island.”

Greg grinned. The conversation continued around them and he could feel Mycroft begin to relax. Kevin arrived back with an armload of beers and began handing them out, nodding at Greg and Mycroft as he did.

“You two’re new,” he said with a grin. He pulled up a chair beside Mycroft. “Come-from-aways?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft replied. Greg grinned at Kevin’s delighted expression.

“No way you’re from around here with that accent!” Kevin exclaimed.

“Nor you, mate,” Greg said with a grin.

“English!” Kevin said, slapping Greg on the back. “The both of you?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

“So you’re both from that plane,” Kevin said. “I’ve been there.”

“We heard,” Greg said. “The originals.”

“Yep,” Kevin said. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

“What?” Greg said, as Mycroft asked, “Are you serious?”

“Seriously,” Kevin said earnestly, “Changed my life.”

Greg and Mycroft exchanged a glance at Kevin’s use of, ‘Seriously’, and Greg pressed his knee into Mycroft’s in acknowledgement of the moment. “I guess we could say the same,” Greg said, grinning at Mycroft again. It was a little florid for what he would usually say, but Kevin was so effusive it felt natural.

The band, who’d been strictly background until then, struck up much louder, and Kevin had to lean in and raise his voice to be heard over the lively reel now playing behind them.

“What’s happened for you guys?” Kevin asked. “I mean, what about this whole thing?”

“We met on the plane,” Greg said. “We’re both English but I’m living in Texas right now.” The admission sent a pang through him, and he felt the smile slide a little from his face at the reminder of how far apart their homes were from each other. Before he could sink too far he felt Mycroft’s knee press against his. The silent connection made him look at Mycroft, and the soft grey eyes sent him encouragement, bringing his smile back again.

_Christ, I am so deep in this. Who am I kidding?_

Meanwhile, Kevin had continued their conversation.

“Right,” Kevin said with a grin. “That’s a familiar story.”

“It is?” Greg asked, still a little distracted.

“A couple from our plane met here and ended up married,” Kevin explained. “He moved to Texas from London after it all.”

“Wow,” Greg said.

“A lot of stuff changed after that,” Kevin said. “Well, I think I changed, and everything else seemed different.” He shrugged as though his pronouncement wasn’t that big a thing, but it resonated with Greg.

“I guess it was a big deal,” Greg said.

“No,” Kevin mused. He drank from his beer, but clearly wasn’t finished. “It wasn’t. That was the thing. My boyfriend Kevin – we were both called Kevin – was much more wary than I was, but we were both surprised at how accepting and easy it was for everyone here. Taking in a pair of gay vegetarians probably wasn’t all that common, but the whole town was wonderful.”

Greg nodded. “We’ve found the same,” he said. “A bit surprised at their generosity, if I’ll be honest. It’s not something you always see.”

“No,” Mycroft added. “It is not.”

“Well, that’s Newfoundland for you,” Kevin said, raising his bottle. “The Rock’ll change you, and I’d bet money you two’ll be back here within a couple of years.”

“A lot of people have returned?” Mycroft asked.

“Most have,” Kevin said. “To visit properly, to thank people, to see the friends they made.”

“Well we might just do that,” Greg said. He was very aware he’d included Mycroft in his statement, and he was equally aware that Mycroft would have noticed.

_The importance of language…_

Kevin raised his bottle again and asked the table if anyone wanted another. Most did, but Greg and Mycroft declined. Greg had no intention of drinking more than the single beer he’d accepted earlier. He doubted Mycroft did, either.

“Should I put this trip into my calendar?” Mycroft asked, leaning close so his words were just for Greg. “Though it does sound a long way in the future, potentially.”

“Sorry,” Greg replied, smiling at Mycroft. _He’s so close…_ “I just thought it would be easier to agree.”

“It’s not a problem,” Mycroft said.

Greg raised one eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” Mycroft said, consideringly. “I would have expected such an assumption to be irritating.”

“But it’s not,” Greg checked, a little taken aback by the blunt honesty.

“No,” Mycroft said, still with the faint note of surprise. He glanced at Greg. “Is that alright?”

“Yep,” Greg said, and he held himself back from kissing Mycroft. It would have been the perfect time, but he was aware they were still in the bar, very much in public. Not that anyone would probably look at them and not think they were together, Greg thought; heads together, grinning from inches apart.


	16. Chapter 16

“Let’s have ourselves a ceremony!”

A voice sounded above the noise, and a raucous cheer sounded across the bar.

“You two’re up for this, right?” Crystal said, breaking into Greg and Mycroft’s moment.

“What?” Greg asked. He glanced up, and all the locals at their table were grinning at him and Mycroft. “What?” he asked again, but Doug and Dwight both pointed at the Mayor, who was standing on a table to one side of them.

“Who wants to become a Newfoundlander?” Claude asked loudly, arms in the air.

Several people from their plane raised their hands, heading over where Sam and her wife were directing them to make a wobbly line of barstools. Greg looked at Mycroft, raising his eyebrows. Mycroft looked hesitant, but he put his hand in Greg’s.

_Trust…_

“Us!” Greg called, pulling Mycroft up. Their table was clapping and cheering the loudest, and Mycroft looked less certain, but Claude was grinning at them.

“Our Englishmen!” he exclaimed.

“Well, I live in Texas,” Greg corrected him.

“I thought you two were married?” Claude asked, and Greg could see the twinkle his eye.

“No,” Mycroft said from behind him, and Greg squeezed his hand.

“We’re not married,” Greg said firmly.

Claude paused for a second, giving the crowd a look that said, ‘I don’t believe it’. “Well, would you like to be?” he asked.

Greg turned to Mycroft, who looked somewhere between startled and horrified at the idea.

“Well why not?” Greg said, slapping Mycroft on the chest, grinning at him.

As they sat down together, Claude continued to line up the people who wanted to take part in the ceremony.

“Can I assume that was the alcohol talking?” Mycroft said with a raised eyebrow.

“Maybe,” Greg replied, “but you saw how much I drank last night. I might need more if I’m going to go through with that kind of commitment.”

Mycroft smiled, going along with the gentle tease. “I should get us two more beers,” he said, and Greg wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt. He contented himself with holding their gaze a second longer instead, feeling the trust swirl between them. It was hardly a comparison. He couldn’t wait until they got back to their hotel room. His mind offered options, but he would be entirely happy to stand in the quiet and kiss Mycroft for the entire evening.

“You two look cosy,” someone said, and Greg was startled to see a bright yellow fisherman’s hat appear on Mycroft’s head. He had only a second to enjoy the sight before one landed on his head too. He grinned.

_He looks adorable. I wonder if we get to keep the hats?_

Before he could say anything, someone bumped his shoulder, and he and Mycroft looked up. Sam’s wife (Margaret? No, Martha) grinned at them and handed them each a shot glass. Greg glanced at Mycroft, but Sam was right behind her, filling the glasses with something labelled, ‘Screech’.

“Screech?” Greg whispered.

“A local rum product,” Mycroft replied.

“The information booklet?” Greg asked.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied with a smile.

“Alright!” Claude shouted, gathering as much of the attention of the room as he was likely to get at once. He gave a probably exaggerated story about how Screech came to be, then lead the room of locals in counting out loud.

When they hit three, Greg shrugged and tossed back the rum. It was terrible, burning and sharp and he winced, glancing around. It seemed that all the Screech-Ins drank at once, and there was a range of reactions along the curving line.

“That’s horrific,” Greg gasped.

“It’s delicious,” Mycroft replied, though it could have been tongue-in-cheek. Between his own reaction and the noise in the bar, it was difficult to hear him at all. Someone took the shot glass from him, and Greg found himself locking eyes again with Mycroft, the two of them grinning at each other.

_I am so deep in this…_

“And now…” Claude said, pausing dramatically, “it’s time for the COD!”

“The cod?” Greg asked.

“The cod,” Mycroft confirmed, pointing to a large, obviously fresh, obviously dead cod someone had brought in from the kitchen. It looked disgusting, and Greg had a pretty high tolerance for that kind of thing. The band started playing some kind of steady rhythm, locals chatting and chanting in a slightly ominous way. As Greg looked over, Mycroft shuddered.

“You alright?” he asked.

“I can’t abide whole dead fish,” Mycroft admitted a little sheepishly.

“I’m sure you just have to touch it or something,” Greg said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

“Now, with every transformation comes a tiny bit of risk,” Claude began. From the looks on the locals faces they knew what was coming, and as Claude continued with some kind of poem about walking planks and blood, Greg grew more worried, until he finally heard,

“Kiss the fish!”

Immediately the woman beside him broke into laughter. Greg looked at her. “He’s joking,” she said with great confidence.

“I don’t think he is,” Mycroft replied, where Claude had started at the end of the line.

“If you wanna become a genuine Newfoundlander, you’ll have to give her a smooch!” Claude declared to general hilarity from the crowd surrounding them. He was holding the fish above his head as he moved to one end of the line of Screech-Ins.

“Oh Lord,” Mycroft muttered. His hand pressed into Greg’s chest, urging him to look.

“I know,” Greg said, swallowing hard as Claude moved closer and closer. Everyone was kissing the fish, some with more gusto than others, but nobody refused. His heart was actually beating faster as it came closer and he glanced at Mycroft. When the woman beside Mycroft kissed the fish, he recoiled far enough for Claude to skip him and bring the fish to Greg instead.

“Yuck,” Greg said, “I’m not kissing a fish!” It looked disgusting, and privately he thought if he refused it would make it easier for Mycroft to do so. His heart was pounding, and he could hear the crowd roaring indistinctly behind him.

“Come on,” Mycroft said, still holding himself back but reaching out to pat Greg’s knee. Greg met his eyes just as he said, “I’ll do it if you will.”

_He’s making an effort._

_How can I say no to that?_

“Oh my God…okay…” Greg said. He hesitated a second more before leaning in and giving the fish what was surely the smallest possible legal kiss. It was as cold and slimy as he’d feared and he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, wincing.

When he glanced up, it was to see Claude holding the fish to Mycroft, who was still pulling right back. “I can’t do it,” Mycroft said, shooting Greg a pleading look.

“Come on, I did!” Greg said, at the same time as Claude reminded him,

“You’ve gotta kiss the fish! It’s a vital part of the ceremony!”

Greg could see Kevin sitting on the bar behind them. As Mycroft continued to refuse despite Greg and Claude’s coercion, Kevin stood up with a grin and whispered something to Claude.

Claude turned to Mycroft and said, “Okay then, I’ll do you a deal. Only done it once before, mind, but that was for another pair stranded here, so it’s only fair.” The room was waiting, some of the locals whispering amongst themselves until Claude said, “Either you kiss this cod or you kiss this Englishman you’re NOT married to!”

Of all the things Greg was expecting, this was not one of them. He started to protest, not wanting Mycroft to be in this position, but before he could get out much more than,

“Wait, what?”

Mycroft had reached for him, eyes blazing, pulling him in even as he planted his lips to Greg’s. A roar of approval went up, and the band struck up something…but Greg wasn’t listening. He was frozen, sitting awkwardly as Mycroft kissed him, uncertain about what he was meant to do. Should he kiss Mycroft back? Wait for him to finish? In the end his indecision made the choice for him, and when Mycroft let him go he’d barely processed what was happening, let alone responded at all.

“Come on!” A voice spoke to him, and it was Kevin; he pulled both Mycroft and Greg up to dance with the locals, a process with which Greg was incredibly uncomfortable and still not quite working well enough to do properly. Mycroft gave it a go, but as soon as Kevin moved on he looked at Greg, ready to leave the dancefloor.

“Water?” Greg asked. His heart was thumping and the world was slightly tilted.

_Mycroft kissed me. In front of everyone. On purpose._

“Water,” Mycroft replied with a smile. He led the way, taking Greg’s hand to pull him through the crowd towards the table at which they’d started their night. At least half a dozen people slapped him on the back, many with, “Good on y’by!” or similar sentiments about what Greg presumed was the kiss earlier. He still couldn’t believe Mycroft had kissed him like that, right there in front of an entire bar of people.

“It’s the Englishmen!” someone from their table shouted, and a general cheer of congratulations went up around them.

“So no more speculation then,” Sam asked with a grin.

“Speculation?” Greg asked.

“Don’t be fooled, this lot are as gossipy as any fishmongers, or their wives,” Crystal’s girlfriend replied. “I’m guessing there’s been some assumptions made about you two that were very quickly put to rest earlier then tossed up again by the screech-in.”

The locals had the grace to look sheepish, but Crystal nodded. “So you are actually a couple?” she asked.

“We are,” Mycroft replied for them both.

“I told you!” Crystal said to her girlfriend.

“But not until this afternoon,” Greg added, wanting to be clear and avoid too much angst between Crystal and Sharon. “After that woman in Tim Horton’s we…talked.”

“Yeah right,” Kevin said with a snort. “That’s not how I’ve gotten my boyfriends to go out with me.”

“Yes thanks Kevin,” Doug said with a roll of his eyes. “Classy as always.”

“So you weren’t together the first time you came in?” Crystal asked in surprise, looking between them.

“No,” Greg said.

Crystal winced. “So that’s why you were short with me.”

“I shouldn’t-” Greg started, but she cut him off.

“I shouldn’t have assumed,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Greg replied. “Anyway we’re going to find some water.”

“Sure,” she said. They found a bunch of glasses at the end of the bar, under a tap; Greg was glad to get rid of the taste of the fish. He knew it was in his head, but still.

“It’s psychological, you know,” Mycroft said with a smile. He seemed much more at ease now. Who would have thought?

“What?” Greg asked, still distracted.

“The fishy taste in your mouth,” Mycroft replied.

Greg stared at him. “How did you know I was thinking about that?”

“You’ve just drunk three glasses of water, moving the water around your mouth, and you’re wincing as though tasting something bad. And,” Mycroft’s face coloured as he added, “you didn’t taste like fish to me.”

Greg continued to stare, not sure if he was more nonplussed by the deduction or the final comment. “Right,” he managed. “I’m still getting over the fact that you kissed me, actually. Here, I mean. Quite literally in front of everybody.”

Mycroft shrugged, his cheeks flushing.

“You can’t blame the beer,” Greg reminded him, grinning. He set his glass on the bench.

“I know,” Mycroft said. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Does that mean I can kiss you right now?” Greg asked. “Because I’ve wanted to a couple of times but I wasn’t sure if you’d be alright with it.”

Mycroft’s mouth lifted a little, his eyes roaming over Greg’s face. “Yes,” he said, placing his own glass on the bar.

“Good,” Greg replied. He stepped closer, taking Mycroft’s hand in his before looking up at him. “You looked adorable in that hat,” he said quietly, grinning as the flush returned.

“I’m sure I did not,” Mycroft replied. Before Greg could open his mouth to protest the statement, Mycroft closed the gap between them, making speech impossible. Greg wasn’t going to argue; any kiss with Mycroft was still thrilling, let alone one instigated by him. In public. In a bar, of all places.

They kept it light, Greg very aware of their surrounds and assuming Mycroft was also, but when it broke Greg still felt his blood sing. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face when Mycroft opened his eyes, either.

“Let’s get back to the table,” Greg said. “Unless you’re done for the night?”

“It would be polite to stay for another drink,” Mycroft said. At Greg’s raised eyebrow he added, “Proverbially speaking, of course.”

“Of course,” Greg replied. They were still holding hands as they made their way back across the floor, and this time when they sat down they both held on.

Mycroft began a conversation with Dwight, who working in security at the airport; Greg and Sam fell into conversation about the local distilleries and breweries. It was grounding to know Mycroft was there, holding his hand still as they held their respective conversations.

An hour later, Sam and Martha were heading out.

“We might go too,” Greg said. The room had cleared a little, only the most boisterous crew remaining. Greg could see David sitting patiently at the end of the bar. “This isn’t really our scene.”

“Ours either,” Martha told him.

Mycroft caught David’s eye, and they all said their goodbyes before leaving. Sam and Martha headed in the opposite direction, and Greg turned to David before he could put his requisite distance between them.

“You weren’t keen to get screeched in?” he asked with a grin.

“I can’t drink while I’m on duty, sir,” David reminded him.

“Fair enough,” Greg replied. “Missed the chance to become a Newfoundlander, though!”

“I’ve been screeched in before,” David said, to Greg’s surprise.

“Really?” Mycroft asked.

David shrugged, and his face reddened.

“Come on, when were you here?” Greg asked him.

David flicked a glance at Mycroft, who nodded once.

“Well, you know how Claude said he’d done that before, given someone the choice to kiss the fish or the Englishman?” Greg nodded. “That woman was my mother.”

“No way,” Greg breathed. “Really?”

David nodded. “She was on a flight on 9/11 that was diverted here, and she met Nick, an Englishman, and they hit it off. He ended up moving to Texas a few months later and they got married the next year. We all came up here to visit, and they screeched us in. They come back every few years.”

“We heard that story,” Greg said. “And that was your mother?”

David nodded. “I moved over to London a couple of years later when a friend got me an interview with…a certain employer.”

Greg nodded. “Wow, so it must have been weird to be diverted here.”

David grinned, the first proper emotion Greg had seen him exhibit. “Mom’s going to flip when I tell her.” He glanced at Mycroft. “Provided that’s permissible, sir.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “I’m sure we can agree on an appropriate level of vagneness for your story.”

“Thank you,” David replied. They’d walked into the foyer by this stage, and it was weird the three of them walking up the stairs together. When they reached Greg and Mycroft’s door, David did not stop, continuing to his room. As their door opened Greg saw him pause and turn, watching to be sure they made it safely inside, no doubt.

“Wow,” Greg said as the door closed behind him. “That’s amazing. David’s connection to here, I mean.”

“Coincidences do happen,” Mycroft said. “Though my brother maintains they are simply the universe being lazy.”

“Really,” Greg said. Neither spoke for a second and the silence reminded him that they were completely alone in this space. His heart kicked up a notch, and he smiled at Mycroft. “Thanks for coming out to the bar with me tonight,” he said. “I know it wasn’t something you’d usually do.”

Mycroft smiled in return. “What about this experience has been usual for me?” he asked. “I am pleased we went. The people here are remarkable.”

“They are,” Greg said, and he hoped Mycroft understood that he meant not only the locals but the stranded redheaded Englishmen, too. “Still, it was a brave thing to do. Considering what happened this afternoon.”

Mycroft nodded, and when he stepped forward Greg did too until they met in a hug in the middle of the room. “A lot happened today,” he said quietly. “A lot happened this afternoon. And not all of it was bad.”

“No,” Greg replied. “I hope it wasn’t.”

Mycroft was quiet for a while. Greg could feel his thumbs tracing slow circles on his back. “The good outweighed the bad,” he said. “Significantly.”

“Good,” Greg replied.

“The bad wasn’t anywhere near the worst I’ve experienced,” Mycroft added. He pulled back and looked at Greg, cupping his face with one hand. “But the good…I will cherish the memories for the rest of my life.”

Greg swallowed. “I think I understand what Kevin was talking about,” he said. “That being diverted here was the best thing that had happened to him.”

Mycroft’s arm tightened around him, and he leaned in, breathing the words before he kissed Greg again. “Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some people, this chapter will have seemed quite familiar.
> 
> So, credit where credit is due: this chapter (much of the dialogue and actions particularly of Greg, Mycroft and Claude during the screech in) is shall we say...heavily influenced by the musical 'Come From Away' by Irene Sankoff and David Hein. I'd love to claim this as my own, but it's far too intricate and wonderful not to thank David and Irene for all their work! 
> 
> In a fun little twist, when David in this story talks about his mother's experience in Newfoundland he's talking about Diane, a character from the musical, who is in turned heavily influenced by a real woman and her real experience in Newfoundland when stranded after 9/11.
> 
> Whew!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and Happy Mystrade Soulmates Week!   
I've just published two Mystrade soulmates stories (The Right Fit and Acceptance) and they're part of a wider collection if you'd like to discover some of the wonderful talent in this fandom. I've also published the start of a soulmates story featuring the couple in Come From Away, if you'd like to delve into that fandom, too (The Dover Fault). <3

Greg allowed his mind to float as they kissed, the silence pulsing gently around them. Without the distraction of the bar, or worrying that Mycroft wasn’t comfortable, he could let himself enjoy this. Mycroft’s hands pressed flat against his back and Greg relished the contact. It was a long time since he’d felt as valued as Mycroft made him feel. Their kissing wasn’t a prelude to something else. It was enough in itself.

He’d lost track of how long they’d stood there, gently kissing, before Mycroft eased back. Greg blinked in the light, reluctant to let Mycroft go, but Mycroft didn’t move any further than he needed to. His eyes were serious as they roamed over Greg’s skin, as though studying his features in case he might not remember the details. Letting him look without making a self-conscious comment, or turning away, or pulling a face, was not as difficult as Greg would have thought. He didn’t feel judgement or disappointment or suspicion or any of the other things he would have expected from anyone else. It wasn’t a surprise, either.

Mycroft was not like anyone else he’d ever met.

Greg’s heart was slow and steady as he stood, hands resting on Mycroft’s sides as he waited for Mycroft to do something or say something to break the moment. When it came, it was so slow Greg wasn’t quite sure it was happening until the smile was wide and definite.

“What?” he said, suddenly self-conscious.

“This unexpected diversion has been a remarkable experience,” Mycroft said quietly. “And I believe it is you I have to thank for pushing me out of my comfort zone.”

Greg grinned, relieved it was only that. “No problem,” he replied easily. “Thanks for letting me push you.”

Mycroft dropped another kiss on his mouth, probably intending to be quick, but it lingered. “It has been a long day,” he said, the words barely needing to travel from his mouth to Greg’s ear. “I think we would do well to retire.”

“Agreed,” Greg replied, shivering as Mycroft’s lips brushed his ear. He hesitated, then pulled Mycroft into another hug, pressing his face against Mycroft’s neck. As he hoped, Mycroft pressed a more definite kiss to his ear and Greg let the gasp escape, tightening his arms. He was a sucker for someone kissing him there, and when Mycroft’s mouth lingered, dragging lips over the curve of Greg’s ear before sucking his earlobe into his mouth, Greg couldn’t keep his hips from kicking forward.

_Jesus._

“Jesus,” he groaned. There was something about Mycroft’s touch that made everything ramp up to eleven. He hadn’t planned on his reaction, but his body had very much responded to the sudden change, and his trousers were most certainly tighter than they had been. He opened his mouth to say something, but Mycroft hadn’t stopped, gently pulsing pressure against his earlobe, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Greg’s head. He was obviously not fussed about Greg’s reaction, because he pressed closer too; Greg felt his hands slide further around Mycroft’s torso, a silent ‘don’t go’.

The combination of mouth and hands sent him into hormone-fuelled overdrive, hips moving again without a conscious choice. Greg felt the groan rumble through his chest and tear at his throat; this time he knew Mycroft would have had to feel his erection press into his…wherever it was. Greg wasn’t entirely certain about which bits of anatomy were pressing where, but he was sure when Mycroft’s hand drifted lower, pressing into the swell of his arse, encouraging him forward. His cock filled out entirely when he shifted slightly to one side and found himself lining up against an equally hard cock in Mycroft’s trousers.

This time, the gasp was Mycroft’s, though the hot breath of it carried right down to Greg’s groin. They both stopped, panting hard into each other’s skin, fingers digging painfully into flesh. Greg had no idea how they’d gone from gentle soft kisses into this so fast. He could feel the fire coursing through his veins and he wanted Mycroft suddenly, in a deep, visceral way he hadn’t yet admitted to himself. This wasn’t the close companionship he’d enjoyed so far, or even the intimate quiet hugs they’d shared. Apart from how fast his body had reacted – he hadn’t managed an erection that fast in years – Greg couldn’t believe how fiercely his need burned.

_Pull yourself together. Remember he’s never really done this. Not properly._

“Mycroft,” Greg managed, clearing his throat and – with all his self-control – shifting his hips back. He cleared his throat. “Wow. I didn’t expect that.”

The warm air washing over his skin stuttered as Mycroft tried to measure his breathing. “Neither did I.”

He sounded rattled, and his hand shifted so he was hugging Greg without groping him. Their embrace slackened until they were holding each other, hips carefully separated but chests pressed together. It was comforting and Greg hoped Mycroft felt the same. He absolutely didn’t want to ruin anything.

_I’m not rejecting you. Please don’t think I’m rejecting you. That was so fast it kind of frightened me._

The words in his head were not the kind of thing Greg would usually say out loud, but this was already far too important for him to fuck it up.

“Hey,” Greg murmured, pulling back a little so he could see Mycroft’s face. He swallowed, watching as Mycroft’s eyes met his.

_God, you’re gorgeous._

Greg let his eyes roam over Mycroft’s face, wondering if it was individual features or the whole, or some aspect of his expression that made him so attractive. He couldn’t figure it out, but as Mycroft stood before him Greg suddenly realised they’d changed places. He was looking at Mycroft, and Mycroft was just…letting him.

_Is this what you were doing too?_

“I don’t know if you need to hear this but I’m gonna say it anyway.” He drew a deep breath. “That was…fast. Really fast. Kinda took me by surprise. Kinda frightened me if I’m honest.” Greg eased his arms free and cupped Mycroft’s face, letting his thumbs brush over pale skin. “This is too important for me to fuck it up, and I don’t want to assume anything, so,” he shrugged, “I just thought I’d say it.”

Greg closed his mouth, stopping himself from rabbiting on any longer.

Mycroft didn’t speak but leaned in for a soft kiss instead. “Bedtime?” he asked. “To sleep, I mean.” He hesitated. “Although I would like very much to sleep _with_ you, if you’re amenable.”

Happiness, deep and quiet, bloomed in Greg’s chest. They smiled into each other’s eyes again before moving apart. The dance of getting ready for bed was silent as they moved past each other, then Greg slid into the far side of Mycroft’s bed, meeting him in the middle. They were lying side by side, faces almost touching though they were on separate pillows. Greg could feel his bent knee brushing something he figured was Mycroft’s knee.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hello,” Mycroft said. The lamp was still on, but the shadow cast over Mycroft’s face made it impossible to see his expression. “Are you…is this alright?”

“Very alright,” Greg replied with a smile.

Mycroft might have nodded, and his hand reached out from under the blankets to turn out the lamp. A wisp of disappointment curled through Greg, but he brushed it away.

“Good night,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft didn’t reply, and Greg wondered if he was asleep already. Wasn’t that a spy thing? Falling asleep on command?

“I wondered if I might ask,” Mycroft said, his voice quiet in the darkness, “a question.”

“Of course,” Greg replied. When Mycroft didn’t continue, he added, “I’m not exactly at the ‘if I tell you I’ll have to kill you’ level, you know.”

A soft huff of amusement and Mycroft replied, “Yes, thank you.”

Greg grinned, scrunching his toes into his socks as he waited. He was learning to like this, the few moments when he knew Mycroft’s brain was working to find the right words.

“At Tim Horton’s, on our first visit,” Mycroft said, “you mentioned that you’ve had…male partners in the past.”

Okay. It was going to be a Big Conversation, then. Greg drew a deep breath. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Did you mean in a…strictly sexual way?”

Greg blinked. “What?”

“Did you mean the word ‘partner’ to mean…” Mycroft trailed off, and Greg could almost hear his frustration at himself.

“Did I mean I’d slept with men or dated men?” Greg asked. He heard something shift against fabric and wondered if Mycroft nodded, a fruitless gesture in the dark.

“Yes,” came the whispered reply.

“Both,” Greg said. “It’s been a long time on both fronts.”

There was no reply for a long while, and Greg wondered where this was going. There was clearly something Mycroft wanted to ask, and as much as his brain was offering suggestions, he was gently ignoring them. No assumptions, he wanted to let Mycroft ask what he wanted to ask without Greg putting words in his mouth.

“And if you were to consider embarking on a relationship with a male partner,” Mycroft said, “would that be something you’d…consider?”

_He used the same word twice in the same sentence. Must be nervous._

_Jesus._

Greg swallowed. “It’s not something I’d rule out,” he said, choosing his words as carefully as possible. “Haven’t really thought about anything like that in the last few months. I’ve been concentrating on getting Adrienne sorted. Making sure that when I get back to London she’s got people around her, good people, so I don’t have to worry.”

Mycroft stirred again. “So you mentioned.”

Greg nodded, remembering that conversation. He still couldn’t believe he’d managed to not explain his relationship with Adrienne so completely. Thank God Mycroft had heard him out.

“Once Claudine left,” Greg could feel his face heating at the admission, even in the dark, “I didn’t…it was easier. To just not think about relationships.” He tried for a laugh but it didn’t exactly come out the way he’d planned. “Knocked me about a bit, to be honest. Especially after my ex and her cheating. And I had to think about Adrienne, so I just…did.”

“But you were flirting with me,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He couldn’t remember why he’d thought he could, or should, but he was damn glad he’d done it. “I don’t think I ever really thought anything would come out of it, if I’m honest. But I was bumped forward on the pane, and I just picked any seat, and then I saw you and you were…” he stopped, wondering exactly how honest he should be.

“I was what?” Mycroft asked.

“Bloody gorgeous,” Greg admitted. “And that suit, and then you spoke, and decided I wasn’t a threat to your person, and I liked talking to you. And you seemed to like talking to me, and I didn’t know anyone else but then we were allocated rooms together, which I assume you arranged, and,” Greg shrugged. Silence sat between them as he assumed Mycroft was processing what he’d said. “At first I just wanted someone to talk to. And you were interesting, and smart and as I already said, gorgeous. And I couldn’t figure out if you liked me or not, but now I think that might have been the bit where you thought I was cheating on Adrienne, but by the time we’d sorted that out,” Greg paused.

“What?” Mycroft asked, and the single word was so unlike him that Greg took a deep breath.

_Fuck it. Just tell him._

“I already wanted to get to know you more,” Greg said. “I was attracted to you, and I figured we’d only have as many hours as we were stuck here, so I might as well try and get you to push your boundaries, see how you reacted, because you were so carefully composed on the plane, but you were amazing, and so much more open than anyone I’d met, and I was falling for you.”

Greg stopped, pressing his lips together, half regretting what he’d said, heart thumping in his chest. It was all garbled together, but he hoped Mycroft could make some sense of it all.

“You thought I was attractive?” Mycroft asked.

“I believe I said, ‘bloody gorgeous,’” Greg corrected him with a smile. “Twice.”

“Even...on the plane?” Mycroft checked.

“Especially on the plane,” Greg said, his heart easing a little. “That suit?” He swallowed. “Your tailor is a genius.”

Mycroft hummed, but Greg was pretty sure he wasn’t considering the merits of his tailor. “And you thought I was interesting?”

“I still do,” Greg said. “And attractive. That’s not past tense either.”

_Careful language._

“Thank you,” Mycroft said.

“For what?” Greg asked. Was their conversation over already?

“Answering my questions honestly,” Mycroft replied.

“You can’t see my face, how do you know I’m not lying?” Greg asked, his tone teasing.

“You have shown yourself to be trustworthy,” Mycroft replied immediately.

“Oh,” Greg breathed. “Well, thank _you_.”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft replied. He shifted a little, and Greg felt fingers creep softly across his hand. Their hands tangled together on the bed between them. “Good night, Gregory.”

“Night,” Greg replied, though he wasn’t sleepy.

What was Mycroft asking? Was he asking if Greg would consider a relationship with him? Or in general? Would Mycroft be considering a relationship at all? Given his history, he might not want to get into anything so formal. Was he in the kind of role where people spied on you to find out things they could use against you? Would a relationship be that kind of thing, especially with a man? Greg clenched his eyes closed, trying to stop questions popping into his head. He still lived in Texas, he reminded himself. For another four months. Why would Mycroft want to wait that long? Surely he was just asking questions out of curiosity. Perhaps he wanted to know if men their age actually had relationships. He probably didn’t have anyone else to ask, especially if he was talking about gay relationships.

The matter was far from settled in his head, but Greg pushed it away, nonetheless. He needed to sleep and just enjoy this time with Mycroft. There was no point borrowing trouble, and if he was lucky, they’d have a whole day tomorrow to make memories together.

+++

Something was off. Greg could tell before he opened his eyes. There was someone next to him, and he remembered it was Mycroft; the knowledge made his mouth turn up in a sleepy grin, and he reached blindly sideways. Mycroft was there, but he didn’t move at Greg’s touch. That was the strange thing. He was warm, and breathing; Greg’s hand had landed on his chest and it now rose and fell in a rhythm that was steady if a little shallow. But he neither turned towards Greg nor acknowledged the contact.

Opening his eyes, Greg turned his head. Mycroft was lying still, one elbow crooked over his eyes. Even with half his face covered, Greg could tell he was frowning under there. His whole body was entirely still, and he hadn’t spoken.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked quietly. “Are you alright?”

Mycroft took a long, slow breath, and his answer was whispered on the exhale. “Migraine.”

Greg winced. What a time for it, he thought to himself. At least he’s not here alone. He lowered his voice and murmured, “What do you need?”

Mycroft opened his mouth, but closed it again, pressing his lips together. Greg could almost feel the pain radiating out from him.

“Alright,” Greg said. He slipped his fingers into Mycroft’s hand. “Squeeze for yes.” He thought for a second. “Do you have medication here?” Squeeze. “In your wetbag?” Another squeeze. “Should I get it for you?” Another squeeze. “Two tablets?” Squeeze. “Okay. Do I need to tell anyone? David or Simon?” No squeeze. “Okay, let’s do medicine first, then.”

Greg rolled, careful not to rock the mattress more than necessary. He filled a glass from the bathroom and found the medication in Mycroft’s bag. It felt odd to go through his things, even with permission. There was only one bottle, so Greg tipped out the tablets and brought them over.

“Here you go,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft took a deep breath, holding it as it rolled onto his side and eased up onto one elbow. His eyes were clenched closed and he looked pale even by his standards as he groped for Greg’s hand. He swallowed the tablets dry, which made Greg feel a little more alarmed. If he could do that he was used to taking medication, and in less than ideal situations. As soon as he’d swallowed, he allowed himself to lie flat again, his elbow crooked over his eyes once more. A soft moan sounded on his exhale, and Greg’s heart lurched.

_Sitting up hurts, doesn’t it sweetheart?_

“I’ll keep the curtains closed and put up the ‘do not disturb’,” Greg murmured. He hesitated, fingers making their way into Mycroft’s again. “I might go downstairs and see what’s going on. Is that okay?” Mycroft squeezed his hand again.

“Okay, I’ll see you later.” Greg hesitated then lifted Mycroft’s hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across his knuckles before getting up. He dressed as quietly as possible before pocketing the key and easing out of the room.

_Fuck._

This was not going to make the day easy. As he walked down to the foyer, Greg reviewed what he thought the day might look like. He’d pictured a lazy morning in bed together, kissing and enjoying each other’s intimate company. After last night, he couldn’t ignore the possibility of more, but he’d also be happy to just get comfortable with Mycroft in that context. A late breakfast, a walk around town together, maybe up to a lookout and hope there was nobody up there so he could snog Mycroft senseless.

A migraine was not part of the plan.


	18. Chapter 18

“Morning,” the receptionist greeted him. “Did you have a good time last night?”

She was far less flirty than earlier, and Greg reckoned the story about he and Mycroft must have got around town. The grapevine here obviously worked fast, though given the misunderstanding last night, he wasn’t surprised.

“Yes,” Greg said with a grin. “The screech-in was fun.”

“So I’ve heard,” she told him. “Where’s your fella?”

“Migraine,” Greg said.

“I’ve heard it called a lot of things,” she said with a smirk, “but ‘migraine’ is a new name for it.”

“No,” Greg corrected, “actually we only had one beer each.”

“And the screech,” she added.

“And the screech,” Greg grinned. “Anyway, he’s not that well. So I’m flying solo today.”

“Speaking of flying,” the receptionist said, “the word is that things might clear up late today.”

“Really?” Greg asked. He peered outside, where the Newfoundland and Canadian flags were snapping hard in what looked like a pretty strong wind.

She shrugged. “That’s what they’ve said.”

“Okay, thanks,” Greg said. He wasn’t going to take any rumours to heart right now. “Might start with some breakfast, either way.”

He smiled at the receptionist and headed into the restaurant. It was long past breakfast time, but from the crowd in there, it was right about the time last nights’ drinkers stumbled in, so they were still serving food. Greg sat by himself, nodding at people but not inviting any company. It was odd to be here on his own. He wondered if he should have offered to bring anything up for Mycroft. He had no idea. His meal was fine, not that he paid a lot of attention to it; his mind was on Mycroft and their potentially impending departure.

When he’d finished, Greg was restless. He didn’t want to return to their room for at least a couple of hours. Mycroft needed rest, and with his medication, Greg hoped he would sleep a bit while the worst of his symptoms eased. The last thing he needed was Greg barging in and making things more difficult. With a quick smile at the waitress, Greg decided to go for a walk. It would help his restless legs at least, and if he walked in the right direction he could stop for donuts and coffee on the way home.

Having a plan helped, and Greg nodded to himself as he headed out. The wind was still bad, and he wondered how likely it was that they would actually leave later today. Surely this gusty mess wouldn’t allow them to fly? He tucked his head in, pushing on for a while, but it was a grim task. There were few people out, and Greg was concentrating more on trying to stop the wind snaking down the neck of his jacket than he was on looking around the town. With a grunt, he looked up, figuring out where he was.

_Mycroft would be faster at this._

Finally Greg worked out that a left turn here and a right at the Baptist Church would set him on a course for Tim Horton’s. As he turned, he accepted the reason he was actually out of sorts. Mycroft wasn’t here. He was certainly a better navigator, having memorised the map of the town on the first day, but it was more than that. Greg had become used to having him around. He missed the small smile that told him Mycroft was amused by something he’d said. As of yesterday, he already missed the feel of Mycroft’s hand in his and the thrill he felt at the soft grey eyes on his as they talked.

There really was no getting around it, he’d fallen hard and fast for this guy. The rational part of his brain reminded him that while he might be British, he was still living and working in Texas, with another four months until he was due to return to London. What would Mycroft say to that? Not that last night’s conversation had made anything clear. And when he did return to London he’d be a lowly police officer, nothing as intriguing or interesting as whatever it was that Mycroft did. He certainly wouldn’t be flying around the world first class with two security staff. Just about the only thing they’d have in common was their taste in donuts.

This train of thought clung to Greg as he entered Tim Horton’s. The quiet was strange after fighting his way through the wind for the last hours. He blinked and looked around, orienting himself before approaching Crystal.

“Morning,” Crystal said. “Actually,” she glanced at the clock, “Afternoon might be more accurate.”

“Yeah, slept in today,” Greg said.

“I’m sure you did,” Crystal replied with a smirk.

Greg raised one eyebrow. “If you must know, Mycroft woke up with a migraine, so I’m giving him some space.”

Crystal opened her mouth again and Greg was sure she was going to say something else but instead she simply said, “So just the one coffee this morning, then?”

“Thanks,” Greg said, feeling a little guilty that he wasn’t up to matching her banter. “And some Timbits, please.”

“Of course,” Crystal replied. “I’ll bring them over, grab a seat.”

Greg did, taking one of the tables by the window. He was still thinking about the Mycroft problem. There really was no way to get around it. He was based a very, very long way from Mycroft’s home, and he couldn’t expect Mycroft to wait for him. An absent smile at Crystal when she brought his order, and he must have looked distracted enough for her to leave him to his thoughts. There was nothing for it, Greg thought. He ate a couple of Timbits, allowing another sigh to escape. He’d have to talk to Mycroft properly at some point. Figure out if this was a holiday thing, or more than that. He already knew it was more for him. But was it enough for Mycroft to want to commit to…whatever they would be committing to, while Greg was still in Texas? It would have to be long distance, although if Mycroft flew internationally…

_Stop trying to figure this out on your own._

Greg berated himself again, resolutely reaching into the box for another Timbit but finding it empty. He frowned and finished his coffee instead.

“I’d better take another box of these,” he said, dropping his rubbish in the bin. He’d never think in North American, he thought in amusement. _Trash in the trashcan._ “If he’s going to feel better I’d reckon Timbits might need to be part of it.”

“And that’s why he’s a lucky guy,” Crystal said with a smile. “You’re so thoughtful.”

“Thanks,” Greg said. He grinned at her, but there was still a pang in his heart at the kind words. He glanced at his watch, wrinkling his nose at the time. He really should give Mycroft another hour or so. With a shrug he headed in the direction of the bar in the vague hope that someone he knew would be willing to make small talk for a while to help kill time.

“Hey Greg,” Matty greeted him as he arrived. “How’d you pull up after last night?”

“Fine,” Greg said, returning his grin. He already felt better, seeing a friendly face. The bar was fairly empty, which wasn’t that much of a surprise, given how hard some people seemed to be hitting it last night. “Mycroft and I only had one beer each. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“No problem,” Matty said. “First one’s always on the house.” He grinned. “I’ll even front you a tab today.”

“I’ll have whatever’s local,” Greg said at Matty’s expectant look. The bartender grinned, handing him a bottle. Greg tried to be grateful for the hospitality even if the beer wasn’t quite what he would have chosen.

“And where is Mycroft today?” Matty said. “Just one beer and he’s still in bed?”

“Migraine,” Greg replied, anticipating the response.

“Yeah, right,” Matty said with the same level of disbelief as Crystal had displayed.

“Seriously,” Greg said, holding in the wince at the way he started that, “he only had one beer. Plus the screech.”

“Okay,” Matty said, though he still didn’t sound convinced. “Does he get them often?”

“I have no idea,” Greg said with a long pull on his beer.

“You have no idea?” Matty repeated.

“As I told…anyone who’d listen,” Greg said, trying not to be rude, “we met on the plane. Two…three days ago?” He’d largely lost track at this point, not that it really mattered.

“Hang on, you really did?” Matty asked.

“Yes,” Greg replied, exasperated. “Why does everyone find that so hard to believe?”

“Well,” Matty said, and to Greg’s surprise he was really thinking about his answer, “you two look like all the honeymooners we get through here.”

“What?” Greg asked. He hadn’t really expected a proper answer.

Matty nodded, and Greg was grateful he wasn’t making a joke of it. “I don’t know if you realise how much you look like, well, a couple well and truly gone on each other,” he said. “More than just, you know, a quick thing.”

As Greg stared at him, Brenda appeared. “Hi Greg,” she said. “How’re doing?”

Greg nodded and offered her a tight smile, and he saw her frown and look at Matty.

“He’s wondering why nobody believes he and Mycroft met on their plane,” Matty said.

“You didn’t,” Brenda said, hand on one hip.

“We did,” Greg said wearily.

“Tell him,” Matty prompted her. “You know, you were saying last night-”

“Yes, thank you,” Brenda interrupted him, swatting at him with her dishcloth. “I was just saying,” she said apologetically, “that you and Mycroft look like any of a dozen other lovebirds we see around town.”

“So Matty says,” Greg said sceptically.

“I know you can’t see yourselves,” Brenda continued, “but you and he are more aware of each other than…anything. He watched you the whole time you were talking to Sam last night.”

“Wasn’t he talking to…Dwight?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Brenda said, “and I’d bet he barely remembers a word. He was paying far more attention to you.”

“Right,” Greg said. He didn’t want to argue with Brenda, especially not since they were sitting in her bar, but he found it hard to believe he could pull – and hold – Mycroft’s attention so entirely. “Well, once we get back to Dallas,” he stopped and shrugged, hoping they could drop the conversation.

Apparently, they could not.

“Once you get back to Dallas what?” Brenda asked. Matty had pulled a bar stool around by this point, and was watching and listening with interest.

Greg sighed. There seemed to be no way out of this now, and it might actually be good to get another perspective.

“Once we get back to Dallas he’ll get on a plane back to London,” Greg said, “and I’ll go back to work.”

“In London,” Brenda finished for him.

“In Dallas,” Greg corrected her. The shock on her face made him summarise his story – she was going to ask anyway – and when he was done, he finished the rest of his beer while Brenda gaped at him. Matty grabbed him another without asking and Greg made a mental note to pay the man before he left.

“And when you go back to London,” Brenda said carefully, “Which will be…when?”

“Four months,” Greg said.

Brenda nodded. “That’s not so long,” she pointed out.

Greg stared at her. “It’s _four months_,” he said in disbelief.

She shrugged. “And when it’s done you’ll be back in London permanently?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Greg replied.

“Where Mycroft lives.”

“Yes,” Greg said.

Brenda glanced at Matty, who shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t sound all that long to me,” she said. “What does Mycroft think?”

Greg shrugged, drinking from his beer. “We haven’t had a chance to bring it up,” he said.

“You haven’t talked about it?” Brenda asked, her own disbelief mirroring Greg’s from a moment before.

“No,” Greg said defensively. “Look, we seriously met on the plane on Tuesday. Today’s, what, Friday?” Matty and Brenda both nodded. “So three days ago. We only kissed each other yesterday afternoon, then there was the screech-in, and last night,” he could feel his cheeks redden, “we pretty much crashed out afterwards. And he was so sick this morning we didn’t even say anything at all. We haven’t exactly had a whole lot of time to talk.”

Greg stopped, immediately regretting his outburst, but Brenda and Matty just looked sympathetic.

“And now you have a heap of time to think,” Brenda said.

“Yeah,” Greg replied, his shoulders sagging. “Been thinking all day,” he admitted.

“Well clearly you need to talk to Mycroft,” Matty said, his first contribution in a while.

“Exactly,” Brenda said with an approving look at her husband. “Before you get on the plane, if you can manage it.”

“I know,” Greg groaned. “But if he’s still sick I can hardly push the point, can I?”

“But if he’s not,” Brenda said, “it’s not pushing the point.” She looked at him the way Greg remembered his mother doing when she was explaining something very simple. “Look, you and he…do you think there might be something there? Something real?”

Greg thought for a second, wanting to give a proper answer, not just something flippant. He thought about Mycroft’s eyes, the slow reveal of his smile, how carefully he’d tried to help Greg work through his concerns about Adrienne. The misunderstanding about Greg’s relationship, and the relief he’d seen in Mycroft’s expression when he’d realised Greg was not actually involved with her. His heart flipped as he remembered the careful hug yesterday afternoon and the blazing determination in Mycroft’s eyes when he’d kissed Greg during the screech-in.

He remembered their whispered conversation in bed together and his heart rolled slowly.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well then,” Brenda said in the same tone of voice, “you need to talk to him. Tell him this. Find out what he thinks.”

“I know,” Greg sighed. He finished his beer, but waved Matty off when he offered another. “I’d better not,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “In fact I should go and see how he is.”

“Good luck,” Brenda said with a grin. “Let us know how you get on.”

“Thank you,” Greg said, dropping some notes on the bar and ignoring their protests.

Stepping outside he checked his watch again, relieved he’d been gone long enough to justify returning to the hotel to check on Mycroft. He didn’t really have anything else to do except keep drinking, and that probably wasn’t a very good idea. With a great deal of effort, Greg restrained himself from eating any of the Timbits on the way back. The wind was still gusty but didn’t seem as strong. Not that Greg really had any idea; he’d leave the meteorology up to the experts.

Right now he was more concerned about Mycroft.

Carefully, Greg let himself into the room, hoping he wouldn’t wake Mycroft. He lowered the Timbits box onto the table and peered over at the bed. In the dim light a shape was visible on the bed, unmoving but unmistakably Mycroft. His arm wasn’t over his eyes, which was a good sign, and the glass was empty. So he’d woken up and had a drink, which was encouraging. Greg carefully refilled the glass by touch, not wanting to risk turning on the light.

As he listened to Mycroft’s slow regular breathing, Greg felt himself yawn. Two beers in the middle of the day was making him drowsy, and with his poor sleep lately he could actually go a nap. He needed water first, and he used the bathroom before coming back into the room. He removed his shoes carefully, and lay down on the other bed, again not wanting to disturb Mycroft’s sleep. With a sigh, Greg closed his eyes.


	19. Chapter 19

It wasn’t all that much later when Greg was woken by a discreet knock at the door. He sat up, automatically looking at Mycroft, who was still asleep. Scrambling out of bed, lest the person ignoring the ‘do not disturb’ wake Mycroft, Greg eased open the door.

It was David.

“Hi,” Greg said quietly, not opening the door any further.

“Sir,” David greeted him. He hesitated, apologetic. “I don’t mean to intrude, but neither Simon nor I have seen Mr. Holmes today.”

“And you want to check he’s still breathing?” Greg asked with a grin.

“Yes sir,” David said. “Probably should have done this morning, if I’m honest.”

“Right,” Greg said, understanding the significant look David gave him. “Thanks for that. Mycroft woke with a migraine, so I gave him his meds and let him sleep.”

David nodded, but he didn’t move. “Again, I don’t want to intrude…”

“Don’t wake him if you don’t have to,” Greg said, pushing the door open. David nodded, relief on his face that Greg understood. He entered carefully, and even in the dim light Greg could see him visually sweeping the room, clocking the messed up second bed, the water on the bedside table, and Mycroft, still sleeping. He checked Mycroft’s breathing and pulse. Greg felt his own breath catch as he eased his shoes on, hoping Mycroft wouldn’t wake at David’s touch. He stirred, but relaxed again as the hand was withdrawn.

When David nodded and eased back, Greg felt himself relax.

“Thank you,” David said. They both stepped out of the room.

“No problem,” Greg replied. “Look, I’m going down for a drink downstairs, since Mycroft’s basically sleeping, d’you want to come?” He figured the security guard would be bored with no Mycroft to shadow around the town, and he’d seemed more accessible than Simon.

“I can’t drink while I’m here,” David said. “But if you’re sure…”

“Greg,” he said. “My name’s Greg.” He grinned. “And I’m not up for any more booze either.”

David returned his smile and they headed down to the bar. “Just water,” Greg told the bartender. “Actually, give me a pint,” he added as the bartender reached for a small glass.

He joined David, who’d picked strategically the best seat in the bar. “Good table,” he said with a grin.

“Can’t switch it off,” David said. “As I’m sure you know.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “I’d reckon we could both point to every exit from here with our eyes closed.”

“Part of the job,” David told him.

“How long’ve you worked for…whoever Mycroft works for?” Greg said. “I mean, in general terms. Don’t commit treason or anything for my sake.”

David grinned. “A few years,” he said. “It’s a good job. Challenging in the right way, you know?”

“I do,” Greg replied. “I was going to be a musician when I was younger. Didn’t really have the talent, to be honest. So I joined the Academy. Best decision I ever made.”

David nodded. “How’d you end up in Dallas?” he asked.

Greg gave him the short version of what happened with Claudine and the decision he’d made to stay with Adrienne.

“Wow,” David said. “I bet that’s not what you were expecting when you agreed to go over there.”

“No,” Greg said. He waved around at the bar. “Neither’s this, really.”

David nodded. “What do you think of Newfoundland?” he asked.

“It’s windy,” Greg said wryly, grinning as David laughed.

“The weather’s never nice,” David replied. “But the people make up for it.”

“They’re amazing,” Greg said sincerely. “I’ll definitely come back.”

“That’s what it does to you,” David said. “The locals call it The Rock.”

“The Rock,” Greg repeated. He frowned. _I’ve heard that phrase before. _“Why?”

David grinned. “You and Mr. Holmes have walked around town,” he said. “Have you been up to any of the lookouts?”

“No,” Greg said. “We did sit by the water one day…I think it was yesterday.” He took a deep breath. “Everything’s kind of mixing together.”

“If you get a chance, there’s a place called the Dover Fault,” David said. “My mom and Nick go up there every time they come back.”

“Oh yeah, they met here, right?” Greg asked.

“Yep,” David replied. “September 11, 2001. They were on a plane from Paris to Dallas, but it was diverted here.”

“Kinda like us,” Greg said with a grin.

“Kind of,” David agreed. “They waited on their plane for 14 hours before they were allowed off.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered. “I bet everyone was happy with that.”

“Nobody knew what was going on,” David said. “They could see a whole lot of other planes out the window, and they knew they were in Newfoundland, but nobody could get through on the phones, and the flight crew wouldn’t tell them anything.”

“I bet they were drinking,” Greg said with a grin.

“The flight attendants were giving out booze eventually,” David said. “It sounds like people got a little cabin crazy. Flashing the cars out the doors and stuff.”

Greg grinned. “Good thing they didn’t serve alcohol on our plane then,” he said. “So they stayed in Gander?” he asked. “We saw a whole thing at the museum.”

“They were at the grade school,” David confirmed. “Mom was always walking, she said, and Nick came along because he hated the crowds, but then he decided he liked my Mom.”

“And there was a screech-in, right?” Greg asked.

“Yeah,” David said with a grin. “Claude did the same thing to them as he did to you.” He raised his water to Greg. “Mom wouldn’t kiss the fish either.”

“Right,” Greg replied, meeting David’s raised glass with his own. “Claude’s a bit of a matchmaker, is he?”

“Yep,” David agreed. “He’s been mayor here forever.”

Greg nodded, then frowned. “Hang on, how did we get onto this? You were talking about why they call it The Rock.”

“Right,” David said. “If you get a chance, go up to the Dover Fault. Anyone can tell you how to get there. It’s got an information board, explains the geography of the area. Apparently it’s romantic.”

“Right,” Greg said. He finished his water. “You often make suggestions for romantic outings to Mycroft?”

David’s face grew shocked for a second before it softened. “It’s not up to me to make that kind of suggestion to him,” he said. “But you’re not my employer.”

“Nope,” Greg said with another grin.

“If you don’t mind me saying, though,” David said, “and if I could say so confidentially…”

“Of course,” Greg said.

“I’ve worked for Mr. Holmes for… a few years now,” David said. “And I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Like what?” Greg asked. David thought about his answer for what felt like a long time. “I’m not going to report back,” Greg said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Just say it and I reckon I’ll know what you mean.”

“Relaxed,” David said eventually. “In jeans. I’ve never seen him without his tie, actually. Socialising. Having a good time,” he hesitated. “If you’ll forgive me saying it…falling for someone.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered, then raised a hand when David started to stutter an apology. “No, it’s fine. You’re not the first person today to say the same thing.”

David nodded but didn’t say anything else. Greg reckoned he recognised the look. _I’ve probably said too much._ It was a familiar expression at work.

“Look, I’m still going to have to go back to work in Dallas when we get back there,” Greg said. “And I get the impression Mycroft’s not…I mean,” he groaned, struggling for the right words. “This isn’t something he does. Much.” _At all._ “But I’ll be back in London in a few months.” He tried to make it sound less intimidating than it was, the months he still had to serve in Dallas.

“Before this trip, I don’t think I’d ever seen Mr. Holmes socialise. At all. Even at Christmas, he allocates a…short period of time for his family, then returns to work.”

“Really?” Greg asked, surprised that David was still sharing details of Mycroft’s life with him. He thought about what he’d said.

_Sounds lonely. Is it a choice, or…_

“This is incredibly unprofessional but seriously, Greg, ask him. He doesn’t have someone waiting at home, and a few months is nothing. You’ll work it out when you get back to London.”

Greg nodded, a smile sliding across his face despite his effort. “Yeah, that’s really unprofessional,” he said, “and exactly what I needed to hear.”

David’s smile was relieved, and as they stood up he offered his hand to Greg. “Thanks,” he said. “Cabin fever’s been setting in a bit. Good to have a chat.”

“I should be thanking you,” Greg replied. “Look, I’m going to ask at the desk if we’re leaving, then I’m going to check on Mycroft again. I’ll let you know if there’s a problem.”

“Sure,” David said.

“Hi,” Greg greeted the receptionist. “How’s it looking?”

“The instructions are to pack and be ready,” she said with a smile.

“No estimate of how long it might be?” Greg asked.

“Nope,” she said. “You’ll know when we know.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied, and made his way back upstairs. He cracked the door open, slipping in carefully.

“Gregory?”

“Mycroft,” he breathed, walking quickly around the bed. Mycroft was propped up on a pillow, though he didn’t look too comfortable. “Let me…hang on…” Mycroft eased forward so Greg could straighten the pillow before he eased back into it. “Is that better?”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. The light was dim but he still looked pale, even by his standards, and his voice was quiet.

“How’re you feeling?” Greg asked. “Or is that a stupid question?”

“Not stupid,” Mycroft replied. “Washed out, as I usually do. That medication works wonders for the pain but the soporific effects linger.”

“It makes you sleepy,” Greg translated. Impulsively he moved around the other side of the bed, toeing off his shoes and socks and carefully lowering his weight onto the bed. He sat up beside Mycroft, and they arranged themselves with Greg’s arm around Mycroft so he could lean against Greg’s chest instead.

“Did you sleep alright?” Greg asked. “I was trying not to wake you.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I think I only woke when…” he frowned, “did someone take my pulse?”

“Yeah,” Greg said a little defensively. “David came to check on you.”

“Oh,” Mycroft said. He frowned. “Why?”

“He and Simon hadn’t heard from you today,” Greg admitted.

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “A professional concern.”

“I think he was a bit worried,” Greg added. “I mean, more than a professional concern.”

“What gives you that impression?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. “He seems like a nice guy. Very apologetic when he woke me up and asked to came in. We had a drink downstairs. Not beer,” Greg added.

“Too much of a good thing?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg replied with a wince. “Which reminds me, are you hungry?”

“Not particularly,” Mycroft said.

“Not even for Timbits?” Greg asked.

“You have Timbits?” Mycroft said, turning his face up to Greg’s.

“I do,” Greg replied, smiling down at him. He eased away, giving Mycroft enough notice so he could rearrange himself while Greg grabbed the Timbits and refilled the water glass.

“You wonderful man,” Mycroft murmured through his first donut.

Without thinking about it, Greg leaned over and kissed him, a slow press of his lips to Mycroft’s, nothing more. Their smiles were identical and Greg felt some of the unease that had grown in his chest dissipate. “It’s a bit weird,” he said, popping a Timbit in his mouth, “but I missed you today.”

“You did?” Mycroft asked. “How long was I asleep?”

“A few hours,” Greg said. “But we’ve spent almost all our time here together. And the places I went were places we’d been together. It was strange being there without you.”

Mycroft nodded, taking another donut. “Tim Horton’s, obviously,” he said.

“Crystal says hi,” Greg confirmed, grinning.

“And the bar,” Mycroft said confidently.

“How did you know that?” Greg asked.

“You winced when I mentioned alcohol earlier, and if David woke you that means you fell asleep in the middle of the day,” Mycroft told him. “And I can smell beer.”

“Jesus, really?” Greg said, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry, that’s awful.”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft replied, and this time it was he who leaned in first. Their kiss was slow again, and Greg drew strength from it as it lingered. This quiet time together was easing the worries that had flared this afternoon and he wondered if they would talk soon. Either way, it was easily the best part of his day.

_He still wants to kiss me._

“Might I presume Matty and Brenda commented on my absence?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “The general feeling is that you were hungover.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft asked with such British indignation Greg couldn’t help laughing. A rush of affection flowed through him at the injured expression on Mycroft’s face and he swallowed.

“Don’t worry, I corrected them,” Greg said. “I was killing time, really. It was too windy to walk anywhere, but I didn’t want to disturb your sleep.”

“How considerate,” Mycroft murmured sincerely.

“Obviously, I couldn’t refuse a beer in a bar, so I had one or two while we talked,” Greg said, hoping to casually mention the second beer without Mycroft noticing. It didn’t work, of course.

“Was it one or two?” Mycroft asked with a faint smile. He selected another Timbit.

“Two,” Greg admitted. “Not my best choice, I’ll admit.”

“Hence the nap?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg replied, resisting the urge to eat another donut. They were Mycroft’s, after all. “Anyway. The receptionist reckons we should pack and be ready to go. It was still pretty windy, I thought, but if the plane’s fixed, I guess it’s up to the pilot to decide if we can fly safely.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft, “though if you recall, it was more of a ‘faulty warning light’ rather than the serious mechanical failure the crew originally feared.”

“Oh yeah,” Greg replied, recalling the conversation with Dane. “Well in that case, let’s hope the flight crew are sober enough to fly.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Or not,” he replied. “I would have no objection to staying another day.”

“Really?” Greg asked, the sentiment surprising him.

“Really,” Mycroft replied. He held Greg’s eyes, putting the Timbits box away as he edged closer. He was moving slowly but it was still a surprise to feel Mycroft’s hands on his face, holding his gaze once again before kissing him so gently it stirred something deep inside Greg.

_Maybe…just maybe…._

He wasn’t going to break it off, and for what felt like hours, they kissed so carefully, Greg’s hand bunching into the duvet beneath him as Mycroft’s hands still cradled his face like it was a precious thing. He could feel emotion building in him as Mycroft cared for him. It was all backwards – he was meant to be taking care of Mycroft – and yet he was the one drinking in the gentle affection.

Finally, when Mycroft eased back, Greg forced his eyes open. His eyelids were heavy, and he wanted to go back to what they’d been doing. To feeling valuable. Special.

From the look in Mycroft’s eyes, there was something important coming. Greg’s heart thumped, and he felt his fingers tighten on Mycroft’s knee. The moment stretched out. Greg didn’t realise he was holding his breath until his lungs started burning. He watched as Mycroft blinked, then a flash of uncertainly came into his eyes. It disappeared, but his fingers slid from Greg’s face and he said instead, “I should probably get dressed.”

Hot disappointment pooled in Greg’s stomach, but he forced himself to smile. “Sure. Of course.”

Mycroft carefully stood up out of bed, and Greg watched, still sitting on the bed. He watched as Mycroft turned, pointing to the messed up second bed. “Did you sleep there?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I told you, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Mycroft blinked. “Even after we shared a bed last night?”

“What?” Greg asked. He was more than a little confused, trying to figure out what Mycroft meant while still processing his disappointment. He was so sure Mycroft had been about to say something. Maybe he’d been going to start the conversation Greg was now dreading, about what they’d do when they left Gander.

“You thought your presence would disturb me, even after we both slept in the same bed last night?” Mycroft asked.

Greg blinked. “Not necessarily disturb,” he said, frowning a little, “but…you were in pain, trying not to move. I just…” he shrugged. “Thought it would be better if I didn’t bump you or whatever.”

Mycroft was still watching him, and Greg wasn’t entirely sure where the misunderstanding stood.

“For future reference,” Mycroft said, “closer is better.”

“Oh,” Greg managed. There were so many possible interpretations, but his mind was still fixed on one word.

_Future._

It was just a figure of speech, of course, but it made Greg’s heart squeeze. He watched Mycroft stand still for a moment before he stepped close to the bed and held out his hand. Greg stared at it before reaching out and placing his own in Mycroft’s, not entirely sure what he was doing. A gentle pull, and he scooted off the end of the bed to stand in front of Mycroft. He didn’t look like himself, but Greg couldn’t tell whether it was the migraine, the medication or the conversation that was affecting him. His head was lowered and Greg thought he was looking at their joined hands. Was he nervous?

“After our outing last night, and a day in bed,” Mycroft said, “I should probably have a shower.”

“Okay,” Greg said.

Mycroft’s eyes were hesitant as he met Greg’s, but he asked quietly, “Would you join me?”

“In...in the shower?” Greg asked.

Mycroft’s nod was clear, but he was obviously nervous. Greg’s heart had skyrocketed, but he could see he needed to ease Mycroft’s nerves. He smiled, leaning close to murmur into Mycroft’s ear. “I’d love to.”

Jesus, did Mycroft even realise how intimate his suggestion was? Fucking was one thing, but a slow shower, even if hands didn’t wander too far…that was something else entirely. Mycroft’s hand rested on his waist, and Greg could feel his fingers trembling.

_Slow and quiet._

They walked together over to the bathroom. The light in there was bright, Greg remembered. Too bright for this. It would be easier in the semi-dark. Without speaking, Greg tightened his fingers before releasing them, leaving Mycroft standing in the doorway while he turned on all the lamps in the room. With the bathroom door open it would be enough to see without imposing.

When he turned back, Greg saw Mycroft watching as he moved around the room. He looked apprehensive, but when Greg stepped closer, fully intending to suggest they could shower separately, Mycroft reached for him.


	20. Chapter 20

His breath caught as Mycroft’s hands pressed to his sides before they slid up to start unbuttoning his shirt. Greg swallowed, watching as his shirt slowly opened, shrugging to help Mycroft ease it off his shoulders. When Mycroft hesitated he reciprocated, the fewer buttons on Mycroft’s pyjamas taking far less time to undo. He could see Mycroft’s hands flexing, so Greg dealt with his belt and jeans, leaving pants on for the moment. Mycroft’s pyjama trousers were the work of a moment, and they stood in front of each other in the warm glow of the lamps. Greg tried not to ogle Mycroft, though it was impossible to ignore the vast expanse of pale skin. He’d been right about Mycroft’s long legs and in the dim light it was only a hint of the freckles he was fairly sure would accompany the red chest hair through which his fingers itched to pass.

Carefully, Greg stepped forward, remembering how Mycroft’s hug had affected him…whenever it was. Not so long ago, but so much had happened and it simply didn’t matter. What did matter was how slowly he moved, giving Mycroft enough time to object – though he didn’t. It mattered how warm Mycroft’s skin was as their bodies settled together, and oh, it _mattered_ how Mycroft’s arms came around his waist, accepting the hug and melting into Greg. Their arms settled, and Greg tucked his head into Mycroft’s neck. He was in no hurry. He wanted to gift Mycroft the same thing he’d been given. Time to stand close, to say _you’re worth my time_.

He hoped Mycroft understood. One day he might even find the words.

Their breathing came together, slow and grounding, and Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so in sync with someone. How could it happen in so few days? He felt the question rise but didn’t allow it to take over. It didn’t matter how long, it only mattered that it was. As he breathed against Mycroft’s skin and felt his lungs expand, Greg felt the last of the anxiety that had grown through the day slowly dissipate. He and Mycroft would talk; if nothing else, they would have the whole plane trip back to Dallas. Worrying wouldn’t make it happen faster, and it wouldn’t change how the conversation would go. The best thing to do right now was relax and enjoy the time they still had here. To show Mycroft he could be desirable and worthy of effort – even if this was the only chance he had.

Pulling back gently, Greg smiled into Mycroft’s eyes. He pressed his hand to Mycroft’s jaw, matching the gentle touch with a kiss that lingered. Mycroft’s mouth trembled beneath his, and Greg smiled, breaking the kiss.

“Shower?” he asked. The word was quiet, carrying only as far as it needed to.

Mycroft nodded, his eyes still closed from the kiss. Greg took the opportunity to study his face. He looked entirely relaxed, and it struck Greg how much trust there was in this moment. Standing almost naked with his eyes closed as Greg guided their bodies together. It was a long way from the man whose security staff needed to make sure Greg wasn’t preparing to assassinate him in the night.

_I’m falling hard…_

Swallowing again, Greg gave in to the urge to kiss Mycroft again. He’d stopped himself so many times, and if there was a moment not to hold it in, this was it. He kept it gentle, just wanting the contact again. Wanting to be closer.

_Closer is better._

Mycroft’s voice echoed in his head, and Greg felt the shudder at his kiss. Mycroft’s arms had drifted loose when Greg suggested they move to the shower, but now they tightened again as he moved into the kiss. Greg’s intention to keep it light was rapidly being dismantled as Mycroft’s lips slid against his. Greg felt himself groan when Mycroft’s tongue ventured forward, and the slackening of his jaw was used well. The sweep of Mycroft’s tongue against his inner lip sent an explosion of desire through him, and Greg knew his own body had tightened at the sensation.

_Okay, we’re doing this then…_

He responded, perhaps a little late, but the careful relaxation of his jaw and press of his tongue back against Mycroft’s drew a gasp that sent all thoughts of timing out of his brain. He lost contact with his body for a moment, feeling his muscles slacken and when they moved again the intention was not comforting closeness. Greg could feel Mycroft pulling him in, and there was nowhere to hide what this was doing to his body. Even through two layers of thin cotton, the feeling of his hardness sliding against Mycroft’s erection ramped him up even higher.

From what he could tell Mycroft was in the same boat, breaking their kiss to press his face into Greg’s neck, his lips sealing there to suck hard on the soft skin.

“Jesus,” Greg groaned, one hand pressing into the back of Mycroft’s head. His fingers scrunched into short hair for a second before Mycroft broke away to press a hard kiss against his mouth again.

“Shower,” Mycroft gasped, and Greg agreed. They were both panting hard now, and instead of the quiet and slow experience Greg had planned, they stumbled a little into the bathroom. Greg reached to turn on the water while Mycroft wrapped his arms around him, pressing kisses into his shoulder. It was distracting to say the least, and when the water ran hot, Greg was relieved to turn back to Mycroft.

They kissed again, not that Greg had a choice; Mycroft was waiting the moment he turned around. Not that he had an objection, the steam rolling out the shower only adding to the surreal edge of this whole situation. For all his inexperience and the hesitation Greg had imagined, Mycroft was passionate and hardly restraining himself, as far as Greg could see. His hands roamed over Greg and he was pressing desperately close, his cock rubbing shamelessly against Greg’s.

Drawing on all the self-control he possessed, Greg reached down, easing his underpants over his hips so they could fall to the floor. Despite Mycroft’s enthusiasm, he moved slowly as his thumbs tucked under the waistband of Mycroft’s pants. Mycroft stilled, and Greg paused, not sure what that meant until Mycroft’s hands caught his own. His pants fell to the floor and Greg realised they weren’t touching. They’d needed a little space, but now they were panting into the humid air and it felt like a huge distance.

Hesitantly, Greg held out his hand, remembering Mycroft do the same as he sat on the bed earlier. This time, Mycroft reached back, and Greg tugged him into the shower and under the spray. It was hot as it hit the side of Greg’s face, blinding him as it ran into his eyes, but he didn’t care. He didn’t know if Mycroft had the same problem, but they reached for each other and Mycroft’s hands curled around his waist, pulling him forward. Mycroft must have hit the wall, because he stopped abruptly and Greg found himself pressed against Mycroft from shoulders to thighs. Everything was slick with water and he gasped when their mouths found each other. It was messy and desperate and nothing like Greg thought it would be.

Mycroft was magnificent. He kissed Greg with abandon, with none of the near-virginal hesitance Greg had anticipated. Instead he was wanton and almost reckless, given their potentially slippery location. His hands reached down to grip Greg’s arse, fingers pulling him in hard. It dragged their cocks together, the water offering enough to be slippery without taking away the edge that came from rubbing skin against pubic hair.

Greg was gasping, holding on for dear life. How had he not pictured Mycroft like this? Had anyone ever seen Mycroft like this? Christ, at this rate it would be over in minutes.

_Wait._

“Wait,” Greg managed as Mycroft started to kiss down his neck. “Mycroft…”

He froze at the sound of Greg’s voice, the tension in his body sudden and complete. Greg could feel him waiting, barely breathing as he waited for Greg to say something more.

“Can we slow it down?” Greg asked. “I want…I want it to last.”

Mycroft let out a shuddering breath and pressed a kiss into Greg’s shoulder. “Of course,” he replied.

“You are beautiful,” Greg murmured, bracing one hand against the wall and running one hand down Mycroft’s face. “And I want to remember this.”

“Me too,” Mycroft whispered. “I don’t want to forget you.”

Greg’s heart heaved. “You won’t have to, darlin’,” he replied, the words forced out past the lump in his throat.

Mycroft turned his head up to look at Greg, and they kissed again, the fire now gone, brought down to smouldering embers. It was deep and slow, the way Greg thought it might start. Not that he had objections to the frantic desperation of the first moments, but this…this was so much more.

It was all the things he wanted. Trust. Closeness. Security. Care.

_Love._

Greg pushed the last one away. He wasn’t ready for that. But this – the slow slide of lips, the press of bodies that was an end in itself, wanting to climb into each other’s skin, to feel every inch of closeness – this was what he wanted. And from what he could tell, Mycroft wanted it too. Every kiss was met with another, every slide of Greg’s hand countered by one of Mycroft’s. Greg deliberately kept it slow, stopping his hips moving, knowing thrusting would escalate things so much faster than he wanted.

Than _they_ wanted.

Greg wanted to explore.

He allowed his mouth to slide sideways across Mycroft’s cheek. The roughness of his stubble dragged past Greg’s lips, and the groan that came out of his throat was loud. He chased it to Mycroft’s ear, pulling on the earlobe with his teeth, relishing the answering groan from Mycroft’s throat.

Mycroft was panting in his ear, the sound running a line of fire through Greg. He could feel it collecting in his groin but he resisted the growing urge to press forward. He could hear Mycroft’s panting growing harsher but he held himself back too. Greg couldn’t believe how much control Mycroft had over his body. After the display earlier he wouldn’t have thought it possible.

_He’s holding back because you asked him to._

_Because you asked him to._

It pushed Greg close to the edge, breathing hard to pull himself back.

“I want you,” Greg groaned into Mycroft’s ear.

“Greg,” Mycroft’s voice replied, his name carried on a gasp.

Greg allowed his hand to drift lower, resting around Mycroft’s hip. He let his thumb caress inwards, towards where he knew Mycroft’s cock was straining for him.

“Please,” Mycroft gasped. He tilted towards Greg, seeking his touch, the panting harsher again as a long groan escaped him. “Please…touch me…”

Greg drew a deep breath and brushed his fingers across Mycroft’s skin until they could wrap around the erection he’d been yearning towards. As his fingers stilled, holding without moving, Greg felt a powerful pulse in his own cock. Mycroft’s groan had been followed by another at Greg’s touch, the second more intense, mirrored in the shudder that coursed through him. Any doubt Greg might have had was erased when Mycroft breathed in his ear,

“Oh God…Greg…”

The sound of his name, wrenched from Mycroft’s lips like that was like kerosene on the embers of their desire. Mycroft was panting it now with almost every breath; there was no way Greg was going to be able to hold on with those new flames running through him. Blindly he found Mycroft’s hand and pulled it down, encouraging him to match Greg. When the long fingers curled tightly around him, Greg’s knees almost buckled and he groaned loud, focussing his attention on the drag of sound in his throat instead of the blossom of arousal in his groin.

This wasn’t going to last long, much as he might try.

Greg flexed his fingers a little, allowing a film of water between his skin and Mycroft’s before he began to stroke. His eyes closed, lips brushing Mycroft’s ear as their bodies started to rock. He knew his hips were moving, the brush of Mycroft’s fingers up and down his cock matching the pace he was setting on Mycroft.

“Harder,” he breathed, allowing the groan to sound harsh and loud when Mycroft’s fist tightened on him.

The panting gasps from Mycroft were totally working for him, his name still sounding often enough to counterpoint the bursts of pleasure pooling low in his belly. Free of the restraint he had been holding on himself, Greg’s hips were rocking hard now, and he could feel Mycroft’s doing the same. With everything moving there was hardly a rhythm but the sensory overload was enough to drive him higher. Blood pounding in his ears and his lungs burning in the humid air, the world reduced to his body and Mycroft’s. Everything was pulling in, and Greg could only hear Mycroft’s voice desperate and rough as his body shuddered, cock pulsing between their bodies. Thick liquid over his fingers told Greg he’d come, and the realisation that Mycroft’s come was probably being stroked over his cock too was enough to push him over the edge.

With a sharp pain in his throat – a harsh cry, probably – Greg felt the tightness in his belly explode, his hips stuttering in Mycroft’s fist, a belated last few pulls drawing it out of him before Mycroft’s fist loosened as his body sagged. Despite his own sudden exhaustion, Greg held him, bracing against the tiles and hoping like hell they didn’t fall over. They breathed hard together for a while, Greg slowly coming down from the crest, the familiar flow of bliss making his muscles heavy. The water was a constant, still washing over them in waves of heat. They both shifted, and Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft, turning them so his back was to the tiles. He cradled Mycroft, reaching up to adjust the water so it washed down Mycroft’s back before returning his hands, letting them drift up and down his back.

Greg had no idea if Mycroft had planned to invite him into the shower. He couldn’t tell in that moment if the words had been blurted out and regretted or not. The way he’d reached for Greg, though, didn’t speak of regret. It said more about desperation and desire. Greg still wondered what Mycroft thought they might have after they left here, but the idea had smooth, calm edges instead of the panic he’d carried earlier that day. It was probably the post-orgasm hormones mellowing out his mood, but right now Greg didn’t care. Right now he just wanted to care for Mycroft.

“Hey,” he murmured eventually. “We might run out of hot water unless we get moving.” He ducked his head down to look at Mycroft. “Did you want to wash?”

Mycroft nodded. Greg could see his eyes were closed, face resting on his shoulder. “Do you want help?” Greg asked carefully. He didn’t want to make Mycroft feel uncomfortable…

Another nod. Greg eased back, finding the little bottle of shampoo provided by the hotel. The next moments were the quiet and gentle ones he’d first imagined. He washed Mycroft’s hair, fingers digging into his scalp, guiding him to tilt his head. The bubbles washed down his body, and again an overwhelming feeling of trust filled Greg. He marvelled as Mycroft let him soap up and wash down his body, turning when Greg’s hands pressed gently on his waist. Greg took the opportunity to wrap his arms around Mycroft, pressing kisses to his shoulders, the back of his neck, the spot where that curl would form once they’d stepped out of the shower. He wanted this part to last even more desperately than earlier, when he and Mycroft fell apart in each other’s hands.

_This is what I want._

It couldn’t last forever, and soon Greg ran out of skin to worship. A quick wash of his own torso and in between his legs was enough as he cradled Mycroft with one arm. When he was done he reached for the taps, turning off the water and stepping out to reach a towel for Mycroft. He met the grey eyes he’d grown to adore, wrapping Mycroft up without breaking their gaze. He held Mycroft’s eyes as he tucked the end of the towel in. He held them as he smiled, pouring all his affection and care into them. He held them as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s mouth, knowing he was trembling, wondering how much of it was from the kiss and how much from the cooler air out here. Mycroft’s eyes drifted closed, and Greg drew a small piece of it into him.

_I made that happen._

Smiling, he drew back, reaching behind himself for a towel.

“We should get dressed,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He’d opened his eyes only to settle them again on Greg’s. Greg stopped, sensing Mycroft wanted to say something. He shifted, loosening the towel so his hand could reach out. It moved slowly, his eyes watchful, until it landed on Greg’s chest. Their skin was still hot from the shower, and the pressure was light, but it still seared into Greg’s soul.

“Thank you,” he said, the words intense and quiet. “For your care.”

Greg smiled. “No problem,” he said, trying to lighten the mood that was suddenly so heavy. This was hardly the place to have the conversation. Not while they were still wet from their shower.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, as Greg turned to leave the bathroom.

Greg turned back, unprepared for what Mycroft was about to say.

“We should talk.”


	21. Chapter 21

Greg swallowed. Was there a more ominous sentence in the English language?

“Sure,” he said. “Um…about what?”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow.

Greg felt himself colour. _Obvious._ “I’ll get dressed first, yeah?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied.

Greg left, cursing to himself in his head. All his calm philosophical view of this was gone, wiped out by the growing panic at Mycroft’s words. He dressed without thinking, putting on the clothes he’d been wearing when they arrived. He half heard Mycroft moving around behind him but deliberately didn’t look. Partly to give him some privacy, partly to try and pull some kind of protection around himself.

_Jesus. How did it turn around so fast?_

When Mycroft didn’t say anything to grab his attention, Greg kept moving. He didn’t want to stop and think, or wait for Mycroft. Instead he took his wetbag into the bathroom, doing his hair and brushing his teeth. Greg avoided his own eyes in the mirror. He didn’t want to see whatever was there. The exhaustion that had crept into his muscles at the end of their shower was back. This whole situation was such an emotional rollercoaster. So many ups and down, even just today, and now he was back where he started. Worrying about the conversation Mycroft wanted to have, his confidence in what they might have shattered by the weight of his anxiety.

_Jesus, Greg. Get it together._

He swallowed, forcing himself to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

_Just go and talk to him._

Shaking fingers took a moment to fasten the zip, but when his wetbag was all packed away Greg picked it up and walked back into their room. Mycroft was sitting in the chair by his bed, looking out the window as he had several times since they’d arrived. Greg faltered for a moment, seeing Mycroft in such a familiar pose. He kept walking, hoping Mycroft hadn’t noticed the hitch in his step.

“You all packed?” Greg asked.

“I am,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated before turning his eyes to Greg. “I should eat something.”

“You should,” Greg agreed. He forced himself to ask, “Should we…did you want to eat first, or talk first?”

Mycroft met his eyes, the grey calm but Greg thought he could see apprehension.

“Whatever you wish,” he said.

Greg raised one eyebrow. “I think you should eat,” he said. “Let’s do that first, shall we?”

Mycroft looked at him for a moment that stretched out like soft marshmallow before nodding. “Certainly.”

Greg wanted to pull Mycroft into a hug, but when he stood up, he realised Mycroft had done the same thing he had – dressed for the plane. The three piece suit was still beautifully cut and intimidating as hell, Greg realised. And the very last thing he wanted to do was crease it, or damage it. Hell, he didn’t even know if he should touch a suit like that. Didn’t silk stain when it got wet?

When Mycroft walked past Greg to the door without pausing, his heart sank a little. He’d hoped Mycroft might instigate a hug, or at least stop to say something. But he didn’t, and they walked out of the room with an awkward space between them.

“A moment,” Mycroft asked, and he knocked on the security team’s door. A few words with Simon, who answered, and he returned to Greg. “Simon will meet us in the restaurant.”

“Sure,” Greg said. Their dynamic was strange again, and he wished he’d taken that moment in their room, Mycroft’s suit be damned. At least he’d know where they stood. With a deep breath he smiled at Mycroft and they headed down to dinner.

+++

An hour later, Greg wished for the slight awkwardness of their pre-dinner interactions. They’d barely sat down in the restaurant, surrounded by other passengers when Dane appeared in the doorway.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, but we’ve been told we’ll have clearance for take-off this evening. The bus for the airport will start taking people immediately, so I’ll have to ask you all to collect your things and meet in the foyer right away.”

“What, right now?” someone asked indignantly.

“Yes, right now,” Dane said with a customer service smile.

Greg looked at Mycroft, suddenly nervous. “I guess there won’t be dinner tonight,” he said.

“No,” Mycroft said, shifting his cutlery with exacting fingers.

Greg wanted to add something about Timbits, but the words died in his mouth when Mycroft stood up, and he hastened to join him. They collected their bags and as they were packed, ended up on the first bus to the airport.

That was a mistake.

Since there were so many people to come they would have to wait in the airport. From what Greg could hear in the restaurant, there were a bunch of people not packed and not all that motivated to do it quickly. If he’d thought about it, he should have asked Mycroft if they could talk in their room before coming down to meet the bus. At least they’d have had a few minutes of privacy to figure out where they stood, even if all the details couldn’t be decided. Assuming they wanted to see each other after this, of course.

Greg knew what he wanted.

But now they were waiting in the airport, the space filling one busload at a time. They’d gone through security and checked their bags and now there was nothing left to do but wait. They found a space with a wall to lean against, though Mycroft stood straight and tall; the thought passed through Greg’s mind that he might have undergone training to endure torture at some point. He was stock still and expressionless, and Greg had the increasingly desperate impression that his Mycroft, the man he’d gotten to know during their time in Gander, was being carefully packed away again, bricked up behind the walls Mycroft had always put in place against the world.

Restless, Greg murmured something, pushing off the wall to walk around the airport, half hoping to find some semi-private space to be able to talk to Mycroft before the plane took off, but there was nowhere. Should he just ask Mycroft to join him somewhere without too many people? Would that count? Greg was questioning his own judgement now, and he could feel the tension in his body as he moved through the crowd. Everyone else was tense too, and it didn’t help his state of mind to feel the air strung tight around him as he made his way back to Mycroft.

_What I wouldn’t give to stop the world right now. We need space to talk._

“You alright?” Greg asked when he arrived. He couldn’t tell if it was his imagination or not, but he thought Mycroft was standing straighter than before. Certainly his body language did not invite any kind of movement into his personal space, not that Greg would have done more than ease up beside him and perhaps allow their shoulders to brush. The tie bar and cufflinks caught the light as he checked the time, flicking the watch at his waist open with practiced ease.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

His clipped tone bit into Greg, and he had to push to get the grin of response to settle correctly on his face. The next comment – he was going to say something light about how much money Tim Horton’s might make if they offered to deliver out here right now – died on his lips as he met Mycroft’s eyes. They were guarded, as they had been on the plane, and all the softness Greg remembered was gone.

He took a deep breath, squeezing his disappointment into a tiny ball. They’d never agreed to anything at all. Certainly not to continue seeing each other, whatever that would look like while living on opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean. But not to even speak with the same ease as they’d shared? Greg felt it cut him deeply and he turned away, not sure he’d be able to keep it to himself. Not that it mattered, apparently; Mycroft didn’t appear to be fussed about him, eyes turned resolutely away from Greg now.

“First class will board soon.” Simon appeared beside Mycroft, ignoring Greg entirely as he spoke.

Mycroft nodded, and for a second his eyes flicked to Greg with the very barest hint of regret. “I’d better go see what’s happening.”

Greg said something, more of an excuse to move away with some semblance of his dignity than anything particularly meaningful. He shifted off to the side, trying to act causal even as his heart broke into a dozen pieces. Mycroft had bent his head to speak with Simon, and it was hardly a stretch for him to not meet Greg’s eyes again.

Simon was well informed; within half an hour the first class passengers had boarded. Greg lingered at the back of the group, not wanting to watch Mycroft go, but Dane caught his eye.

“You going to sit up the front?” he asked. “The same seat’s still free.”

“No, that’s fine,” Greg said with a tight smile.

“I thought you and the redhead…” Dane replied, surprise writ on his face.

“No,” Greg said tightly. “Turns out…not.”

“Right,” Dane said, with the awkward sympathy Greg remembered from conversations after his ex-wife had left. It was just as awful now as it had been at the time, and he steeled himself. Nobody at home would even have to know about this. Delilah might suspect, but Greg was pretty sure he hadn’t said anything specific so he’d have plausible deniability, if nothing else.

The rest of the flight boarded slowly, and Greg took his original seat without complaint. His shoulders wouldn’t be happy again, but that was his own fault, wasn’t it? The pre-flight things seemed to take forever, and he closed his eyes. The people around him seemed happy enough, most of the chatter rolling around him about what they’d done and where they’d been. Nobody asked him, which was exactly why he had closed his eyes in the first place. The sooner he arrived back in Dallas, the better. Back to the way that things were. Back to the simple and plain, and he could forget this whole thing even happened.

When the plane finally lifted from the ground, raucous cheers erupted through the cabin. Greg noted that nobody mentioned the ‘mechanical’ failure at all, but the memory didn’t elicit the grin he thought it might have. Everyone was just so happy to be going again nobody questioned it, and when they crossed back into American airspace, the cheers sounded again.

Greg was contemplating whether to eat the meal he’d been served – they would be home soon enough, but he’d missed out on his dinner – when David appeared. He raised one eyebrow significantly and continued to the back of the plane, and Greg sighed. He wasn’t cut out for spy stuff. Counting to ten, he slid himself out from his seat and followed, meeting David in the small space beside the toilets. Hardly glamorous stuff, but needs must, he thought wryly. Even when you have no idea.

“Hi,” Greg said. “What’s up?”

“I’m on my break,” David said in a significant voice. “Not on the clock.”

Greg stared at him, the subtext taking a second to sink in. “Right,” he said cautiously.

“So I could ask you the same,” David said. “What’s up?”

“What do you mean?” Greg asked.

“Jesus,” David muttered, “don’t fucking do that. I’ve only got a minute or two.”

“Short lunch break,” Greg said. David raised an eyebrow, and Greg sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “Look, long story short, Mycroft said we needed to talk, but we were shuttled out here before we could and now he’s all back to how he was.”

David looked at him. “What did you do?”

“What the fuck did I do?” Greg repeated. “Nothing. As far as I know, nothing. Mycroft’s gone all,” he waved one hand helplessly. “Back to how he was.”

“And you didn’t try to talk to him,” David said.

“In the airport?” Greg asked disbelievingly.

“Well now he’s a captive audience,” David said. “With a spare seat beside him.” He gave Greg another pointed look, then said, “Give it at least an hour, okay?”

“Fine,” Greg said.

His heart was still pounding as he sat down – the flight attendant had taken his meal, so that decision was taken out of his hands – and he closed his eyes again, this time to think.

_Fuck._

That was the main gist of his thoughts. What was he supposed to say? Or do, for that matter? Just show up and talk to Mycroft, as though it didn’t matter, when it mattered more than anything else?

The hour sped past, and when Greg stood up with the intention to move forward he had almost no idea what he was going to say.

“Just going to…is that okay?” Greg asked when he caught Dane’s eye in the galley. He’d waved up ahead, and perhaps the terror was showing on his face because Dane nodded soberly.

“Good luck,” he muttered as Greg passed.

The first class cabin looked exactly the same, of course, and Greg sat in the same seat he had the first time. Beside Mycroft, with the aisle between them.

“Hi,” Greg started. “I’ve heard these seats lie flat, is that true?”

The attempted joke fell flat when Mycroft’s serious eyes landed on his. They weren’t as cold as Greg had feared, yet they hardly encouraged personal conversation, either. He didn’t move for a few moments, wondering if he should be doing or saying something. Finally, Mycroft raised his hand in the sign Greg recognised as, ‘don’t kill this guy for talking to me.’

“Thanks,” Greg said, but stopped when Mycroft stood up. He watched Mycroft move around to the far side, to take the seat directly beside Greg so there was no aisle between them. Was that a good sign? They’d be able to talk far more intimately…or privately, depending on your outlook and the direction in which this conversation veered.

“Was there…something?” Mycroft asked, and Greg realised.

_He’s nervous as hell, too._

His heart started pounding even faster as the slightest glimmer of hope blossomed in his chest.

“The last thing either one of us said before all this happened,” Greg said, “you said that we needed to talk. And I agreed.” He shrugged. “So here I am. Nothing else to do for the next five hours.”

“I am not sure if this is the best place for the conversation we may need to have,” Mycroft said, his eyes telegraphing his alarm.

“We don’t have to…talk about everything,” Greg said, trying to keep his voice low.

_But something. We need to talk about something._

He waited as Mycroft considered his words, hoping for he didn’t know what.

_Something._

“I have had time to think since then,” Mycroft said. He was frowning a little and not meeting Greg’s eyes, and Greg had a sinking feeling he wasn’t entirely prepared to acknowledge. “I don’t know that we do have anything to discuss,” Mycroft said.

“What?” Greg couldn’t believe he’d heard those words. What did Mycroft think was going to happen when they got back to Dallas? Jesus, did he think all shared showers were that intimate? That everyone talked the way they did? Trusted the way they did?

_Does he even realise how special this could be?_

Mycroft glanced around, lowering his voice even further. “While this time in Gander was both unexpected and illuminating, there has been no discussion of what would happen after this plane lands in Dallas.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” Greg asked.

“I don’t believe it is,” Mycroft replied. “Our lives are vastly different and at a minimum, you live on the other side of a very wide ocean.” He smiled, though a less sincere effort Greg could not recall seeing. “We are not particularly well suited, surely that was evident to you?”

“What?” Greg whispered as his heart crumbled, squashing the hope into despair. “No, no it wasn’t…”

“I have no ill intent towards you,” Mycroft said. “No intention to hurt you. But I hope you have not been harbouring illusions that our association would continue once we left Gander.”

Greg couldn’t speak. He looked helplessly at Mycroft, at the perfect façade in front of him that wouldn’t meet his eyes.

_It’s over._

“Goodbye, then,” he said, the words tearing a hole in his heart. “Good luck with the piano. And to your brother. He’s lucky to have you.”

Mycroft didn’t turn around as Greg stood up to leave, so Greg took the moment to sign one last message behind his back. Even though he knew Mycroft couldn’t see him, it still felt like saying the words.

_I’ll miss you. I won’t forget you._


	22. Chapter 22

The rest of the flight was a blur. Greg stared blankly ahead, ignoring the second meal and having to be asked personally to fasten his seatbelt when they were preparing to land. His mind reeled between completely blank and whirring wildly with half formed questions until he forced himself to push the questions away. The blankness overwhelmed him and he moved on autopilot, barely seeing the people around him as he left the plane. It was a miracle he remembered his coat at all. The flight attendant spoke to him as he left, but a vague smile was all Greg could manage.

He didn’t see Mycroft as he disembarked.

Greg hadn’t called ahead so nobody knew he was back in town. It was tempting to just take a cab back to the house and crawl into bed, but he knew Adrienne would still be in hospital and what kind of namesake would he be if he didn’t go and see the baby as soon as he could?

Greg used the ride over to pull himself together a bit. He didn’t need to even mention Mycroft. They didn’t even have to know, he could just…pretend it never happened. That it was a boring few days stuck in the middle of nowhere, walking a lot and eating more donut holes than anybody really should. That he hadn’t dared to hope a bit, to care a bit, to dream a bit…

He’d have to lock this one away in his heart. Before he walked into the room indicated by a nurse, Greg took a deep breath, pasting a smile on his face.

“Greg!” Adrienne greeted him, delight on her face and in her voice. She looked tiny and vulnerable in her hospital bed, but at least she appeared to be in good spirits. “I didn’t know you were coming back today!”

“Neither did I until right before we left,” he told her. It took a second of working out how he could hug her without hurting her, but they managed. “How are you?”

“Better,” she said. “Surgeon said I can go home soon, especially if you’re there.”

“What about Mamma?” Greg asked. His mind was drawn back to Dallas – the people and places, the small concerns that made up a day of regular life. He sat in the uncomfortable chair beside her bed, feeling Newfoundland slip further into his past. “Doesn’t she count?”

Adrienne shrugged. “She counts for Lexi, I think,” she said. “But I’m going to need some help getting around. I don’t think they really thought she could lift me.”

“Fair enough,” Greg replied. “So the baby’s Lexi, is she?”

“Yep,” Adrienne said. “She’s fine. Out of NICU now and just waiting for me to be ready to go.”

“Good to hear,” Greg told her, grinning despite the heaviness still in his heart. It was good to be back here; to see Addie was okay with his own eyes. It helped, both as a distraction and a reminder that he still had his little family here. Even if Mycroft was determine to relegate their time together to the past.

“So, what happened to you?” Adrienne said. “You look different.”

Greg took a deep breath and met her eyes, steeling himself. _You knew this conversation would come._ “Stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere in a storm,” he said with as little importance as he could muster. “Nothing much to tell. Except that they had donut holes.”

“And I’m guessing you sampled some,” Adrienne said with a grin.

“I may have done,” Greg admitted, forcing his eyes to sparkle. “Only fair, since there was nothing else to do.”

He settled back in the visitors’ chair and as they talked Greg edited Mycroft out of his stories with a pang. It felt like he was erasing what had happened. Like he was making the choice instead of Mycroft.

_I won’t forget, even if I don’t talk about it._

“Matthews sent flowers, by the way,” Adrienne said. “Wanted me to tell you he’s still considering reporting you for being AWOL.”

Greg rolled his eyes. It was a running joke that his boss wanted him to stay in Dallas indefinitely. For a while, he’d considered it, especially with Lewis floating around. But when he was in Gander he’d realised how much he was looking forward to returning to London. Not just for Mycroft, either, though that was now moot anyway. And with Lewis out of the picture, it felt like he wasn’t needed here anymore.

_London is closer to Mycroft._

“I’ll be able to tell him tomorrow,” Greg told her. “I’m sure we can agree on some kind of punishment.”

Adrienne grinned. She knew how much Greg had wavered about going back to London. “If he had his way you’d be here forever,” she said.

“Yeah,” Greg said with his best effort at a grin. “It’s not happening, though. I’m heading back when my time’s up.”

“I know,” Adrienne said. She’d always encouraged him to go back to London. He was far too English to live in the US forever. “Can’t get rid of you fast enough, mate.”

“Your accent’s getting better,” Greg told her. He took a deep breath, following their usual banter with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel. “London won’t know what hit it.”

“DI Lestrade back in town!” she said. “You’ll be back to picking up in the bars again.”

Usually this was where Greg winced or rolled his eyes – depending on how much he regretted telling her about his past escapades. Today though, it hit him harder than he expected. He wouldn’t be picking up in bars. He had a job to go back to, of course, but otherwise his life in London loomed dull and empty without Mycroft.

_Geez, you’d really built something in your head with this guy. What were you thinking?_

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Seriously, Greg!”

He blinked and focused on her. She looked worried. “What?” he said.

“What…are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he whispered, but it was the most unconvincing lie he’d ever told, and to his alarm, tears welled fast in his eyes as he watched the astonishment bloom over Adrienne’s face.

“Greg, what happened?”

He shook his head, breathing deeply to try and get his breathing under control. Was he going to regret telling her this? He knew she wouldn’t let it go, not with this kind of reaction. Christ, he couldn’t even keep it in for an hour. Greg swiped at his eyes and pressed his hands into his thighs hard, hoping his voice wouldn’t waver too much when he spoke. He kept his eyes on his fingers, clenching until his knuckles were white, trying to pull himself together.

She waited, and when the worst was over, Greg whispered, “I met someone. In Gander.”

“You did?” Adrienne said, and to his astonishment she sounded…happy?

“He’s British,” Greg added. “Lives in London. Some kind of big deal in the security service, I think.”

“And?” Adrienne prompted. Greg frowned, looking up at her. She looked excited but confused, leaning forward and waiting for his response.

“And…he lives in London,” Greg said. “And I live in Dallas.”

“Yeah, yeah, details,” Adrienne said, waving one hand dismissively. “What’s he like? Did you talk? Did you kiss? Did you-”

“Yeah, okay,” Greg interrupted. He wasn’t quite ready to share the gory details with Adrienne right now. He could barely believe he was talking about it at all. “He’s…amazing. Pretty uptight to begin with, but we had to share a room-”

“Oh my God, tell me there was only one bed,” Adrienne said, clutching her hands overdramatically. “Classic romance movie trope.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “There were two beds, thanks. And two security guards trailing after us.”

“Romantic,” Adrienne said, her eyes bright. “What else? What did he look like? What did you talk about?”

“He’s a redhead,” Greg said, feeling the smile tug at his mouth as he remembered how sensitive Mycroft had been to the fact. “Tall, long legs, well dressed. We talked about all sorts of things. His brother, where we grew up. He knows about seven languages, and I taught him some BSL.”

“BSL?” Adrienne asked.

“British Sign Language,” Greg explained.

“I didn’t know you signed,” Adrienne said, surprised.

Greg shrugged. “Must never have come up.”

“Anyway, let’s not get distracted,” Adrienne said. “What else happened? Please tell me you kissed him. Or he kissed you. Oh my God, is he like, totally dominant?”

“What?” Greg asked. “Jesus, Addie, no. I kissed him, if you must know.”

“I must,” she gushed, “and I must know all the details.”

“No,” Greg said, though he was grinning. It was good to talk about it, though he still felt sad thinking about Mycroft. Sad wasn’t the word, really. He knew he’d fall apart again, probably more than once, but it felt more right to talk about it than editing him out had.

_I can’t pretend he didn’t exist._

“But it was lovely, and we slept in the same bed that night.” That was enough detail for her.

“And he lives in London,” Addie said, taking Greg’s conversational hint and not pushing for more details.

“Yes,” Greg confirmed.

“So you’ll do long distance until you get back?” Addie said, the confusion clearing. “Is that why you’re upset? I can see you’re smitten, Greg, it’s all over your face.” She was grinning, but it slid off her face as she saw Greg’s terse nod. He could feel his face settle into misery again as she watched him. “What?” She crossed her arms. “Don’t try to tell me you’re not, I can see-”

“He’s not interested,” Greg said, the words tugging at the pieces of his heart. Christ, this bit was hard to put into words. “He was sick our last day and I couldn’t talk to him. By the time we could it was on the plane, and he was…different again.”

“Different how?” Adrienne asked. “And how do you know he’s not interested? Did he say that?”

“As good as,” Greg replied, barely holding back the tears yet again. The memory of Mycroft’s carefully edited words was still fresh. Why had he been like that? What had changed in the hours since they’d shared the Timbits in bed, and then that shower…

“No, there’s no ‘as good as’ when it comes to this stuff,” Addie said, pulling him out of the rapidly gathering spiral he was working his way into.

Greg was about to protest when the door opened and Delilah walked in. She looked at Greg and without a word opened her arms. He stepped over, relief coursing through him at her familiar embrace. She always smelled of spices and the sandlewood she burned and he breathed her in deeply. He winced at the effusive kisses she bussed all over his cheeks, her hands stronger than they looked as they held his head steady. Despite his fears, she somehow never smudged lipstick all over his cheeks. Today, he wouldn’t have minded.

“Bubba,” she said, the sound rumbling through him. “How’re you?”

“He met someone,” Adrienne answered before Greg was able to find any words.

“What?” Delilah said, pulling back to look at him. Her face was surprised, but she looked as delighted as Adrienne had done.

“His name is Mycroft, he lives in London, and Greg’s convinced he’s not interested,” Addie summarised.

Greg looked at her, exasperated. “That’s not entirely the story, Addie,” he told her.

“Greg,” Delilah said, still holding his hands, “what _is_ entirely the story?”

He sighed. “You better sit down.”

When he started, Greg was surprised to find a warm glow inside him as he regaled the story of what happened in Gander. He cut out a lot of the stuff about Mycroft’s work, and everything that had happened in the shower. He explained how easy it was to talk to Mycroft and even found himself trying to explain how Mycroft made him feel valuable. The conversation on the plane was much harder to tell, and he treated it like a police report; facts, no emotion. By the end Adrienne and Delilah were watching him with mouths open.

“And he really didn’t want to see you?” Delilah said.

“His exact words were, ‘We are not particularly well suited, surely that was evident to you?’”

Greg quoted Mycroft without thinking. The words were so painful they hit him even across the careful distance he’d curated, and he took a deep breath as he watched both the women process this. Delilah was the first to speak.

“From what you’ve said, it doesn’t sound like you agree on that point.”

“I don’t,” Greg said, forcing down the emotion threatening to spill over again. The next question was rhetorical. “But what can I do?”

Addie looked at him as though he was crazy. “Well clearly, you have to meet Lexi before you go,” she said, “and then you get yourself on a plane to London and you find him.”

Greg blinked. Delilah was nodding, obviously approving of Addie’s plan.

“Seriously?” he asked. “And what do I say, exactly? ‘Hi I think you were wrong and we’re quite well suited?’”

“Sounds like a good start to me,” Addie said.

“You go and talk to him,” Delilah said, her voice gentle. “And you don’t give up until he says the words, ‘I don’t want to be with you,’ because everything else is just fear talking.”

“Fear?” Greg repeated. A lot of possible reasons had crossed his mind since Mycroft had turned him away, but fear had never crossed his mind.

“Fear,” she said firmly.

Greg had no idea if she was right or not, but between them, Delilah and Adrienne and were in accord about what he should do. It felt impulsive, almost reckless, but the alternative was to do nothing. At least if he tried to have a conversation with Mycroft there was a chance he’d walk away with some answers. Some closure, whatever that meant. Something to stop the questions spinning through his mind, perhaps.

They all sat in silence for a few moments until Greg said finally, “Okay then.”

“But first, the baby,” Adrienne said firmly.

“Of course,” Greg said with a smile.

+++

London was a lot colder than Greg remembered, even in the week he’d been gone. Well, less than a week. Had the weather turned even in that short time? He shivered, wishing he’d packed differently. Or at all. With the encouragement of both Addie and Delilah he’d left his bags with Delilah at the hospital and taken a taxi straight back to the airport. The five hours until the next flight out to London gave him time to buy some new clothes and clean up in the first class lounge. Economy was too fresh a memory and he needed a shower, so the extra money didn’t make him blink. He’d forgotten how much his savings had grown while he’d been here – doing nothing but caring for Adrienne had reduced his weekly donation to the local bar and his bank account showed the difference.

Now, standing at Heathrow with nothing but a small carry-on bag holding one outfit and his passport, Greg had no idea where to begin. It was a safe bet that Mycroft’s office was in Whitehall, but that wasn’t narrowing things down much especially considering the level of security he undoubtedly enjoyed.

_What do you know about him?_

Greg sat down, frowning as he sorted information. There was no point searching for Mycroft online; he knew there would be nothing there, even if his name was so distinctive. Even without his fancy job, Mycroft was intensely private and Greg could hardly see him having a Twitter account in his own name. No, it would have to be something more personal, but from another angle. Like finding a suspect when they’d gone to ground. How did you find them?

Family and friends.

_Sherlock._

The brother. Greg’s eyebrows rose at the idea. His brother’s name was equally as distinctive, and from what Greg remembered, he’d been involved with drugs. Even if he hadn’t been formally charged – and there was a chance Mycroft had quashed any official record – his name might have stuck in somebody’s head. Or in somebody’s notes, maybe. It was a long shot, but he was still owed a few favours, he hoped. And if anyone would help him out, it would be Donovan.

Greg pulled out his phone, heart suddenly beating hard. He had a plan. Not a great plan, and there was nothing to fall back on, but he’d run suspects to ground with less than this.

“Hey Sally,” he said, “Yeah, I’m back in London. Not officially, but I have a favour. Can you search the data base for a name for me? I’ll text it through, it’s pretty unusual. I’m looking for known associates, address, even the kind of area I might find him in. Nah, can’t tell you what it’s for. Cheers, I’ll owe you one.”

He chuckled with mirth he didn’t feel at her joke. Texting the name to Sally was far easier than spelling it, but there was still time to wait as Sally did the checks. He paced restlessly, trying not to think about the last time he was waiting in an airport. Tempted though he was to find a beer – what time was it, even? - Greg opted for a coffee. It wasn’t great, and the caffeine danced along his already tight nerves, but it was better than dulling his wits with alcohol.

He’d just thrown out the dregs and was contemplating a probably-stale donut when his phone pinged.

_Matthews says you have two days. – Addie x_

Greg groaned. Not the message he was hoping for.

_I’ll do my best. Stall him if you can? And kiss Lexi for me. – G xx_

The response was immediate.

_Of course. – Addie x (and Lexi x)_

He’d just slid it back in his pocket when it pinged again and this time his heart leaped at the sender: S. Donovan.

_SH: last known address 221b Baker St. Known to Vice (possession) but currently offering services as a private detective. Google him. And good luck – word has it he’s a prick to deal with._

Greg frowned. He hadn’t even thought about Googling Sherlock, but when he did, the first result was a pretty slick looking website declaring Sherlock to be ‘the world’s only consulting detective.’ Greg’s eyebrows rose, but the address matched the one Sally had. He shrugged. It was as good a place to start as any, and right now, he’d deal with just about anyone if it gave him a chance to get a message to Mycroft.

+++

“You’re not here for my help,” Sherlock declared immediately when Greg walked in. His eyes raked up and down, eyebrows rising a bit as he noted something.

“I am,” Greg said.

“Not as a private detective,” Sherlock said. “You’ve only just arrived in the country, for God’s sake.”

Greg’s mouth dropped open, but he shrugged. Sherlock was right, after all. “I want to get a message to your brother,” he said. Whatever he thought Sherlock’s reaction might be – and he’d considered many on his way across London – knocking the smirk off his face was pretty satisfying. “Can you do it?”

“Of course I _can_,” Sherlock said, regaining some of his attitude, “but why would I?”

“Because you’re curious,” Greg said, “and the reason I’m asking isn’t something you can deduce.”

Sherlock raised one disbelieving eyebrow, but Greg crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow of his own. He stood still as Sherlock eyed him up and down again, heart thumping as the seconds dragged out.

_If you’re as smart as your brother you can see a lot._

_Please don’t be able to see this._

“Well,” Sherlock said, and Greg felt his heart sink, “you’re right.” He could hear the frustration in the detective’s voice. “I can tell a lot of things about a lot of people.”

“I know,” Greg said, his pounding heart not easing up for a second. “From what I’ve heard, you’re brilliant.”

“I am,” Sherlock said without modesty.

“So will you pass on the message?” Greg asked.

“What is it?” Sherlock retorted.

Greg was prepared to haggle, but as he looked at Sherlock, he realised that realistically, he’d do whatever Sherlock wanted him to do if it would get him in contact with Mycroft.

Sighing, he raised his hands, conscious of slowing his hands, not sure how fluent Sherlock’s BSL would be. From what he’d seen, drug deals required precious little communication beyond _How much? _and _Here’s the money._ He’d agonised over what to say. It couldn’t be too long, or complicated, or sappy. Greg knew he’d have to engage Mycroft’s brain somehow. Make it something he could figure out, or that had multiple possible solutions – but it _must_ be something he had to talk to Greg about. All the hours on the plane had at least given Greg time to think, and he’d finally settled on a message. His hands shook as he repeated the message for Sherlock.

_Kevin was wrong._

Sherlock frowned. “Kevin was wrong?”

Greg nodded, dropping his hands to his sides.

“That’s the message?” Sherlock asked.

“It is,” Greg replied. He braced himself, waiting for Sherlock to demand to know what it meant, or some extravagant payment for his services.

_Whatever it is, I’ll pay it._

Instead, Sherlock turned to look behind himself at the top of his bookshelf. “Did you get that, brother?”

Greg blinked. “What?”

“My brother has this room under secret surveillance,” Sherlock said conversationally, “which is, of course, terribly obvious. There’s no need for me to pass on the message, he’ll no doubt be reviewing this within a few moments.”

“Okay,” Greg said faintly. He swallowed hard. “Look, I’ll go-”

“Hello!” A voice trilled up the stairs and a beaming older woman came in bearing a tea tray. “Hello, dear, don’t mind me, just bringing up some tea for you both. Sherlock needs to eat more.” She offered him the gingernuts with a bright smile, and despite the scowl he gave, Sherlock took three. Greg didn’t want to be rude, but he hesitated, waiting for Sherlock to wave a careless hand before he accepted a biscuit and a cup of tea. After the last few days, the first sip almost made him weep. Proper English tea and homemade biscuits were like a warm hug for his insides.

The woman stayed and nattered on, asking about Greg and talking about Sherlock as though his escapades – which sounded alarmingly illegal to Greg – were those of an untamed child rather than a grown adult. Greg smiled politely with one eye on Sherlock, not entirely sure if he was being held here under the guise of common courtesy or if this woman was genuinely happy to sit here and talk about nothing for what was coming up to an hour now. The detective continued to scowl, though one hand darted out for more biscuits on a regular basis, and he drank at least one cup of tea.

Finally, when there was a break in her stream of consciousness, Greg leaned forward with a smile to say, “Well, thank you for the tea and biscuits, it’s probably time that I-”

“Gregory.”

The voice from the doorway was unmistakable, and Greg froze. Before he turned to the doorway, he looked at Sherlock, who was smirking to himself. He stood, taking the cup from Greg’s hand and picking up the tea tray.

“Come on Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “Let’s go downstairs.”

She looked a little bewildered but nodded, standing and smiling at Greg before heading for the door.

“Mycroft,” she greeted him, and he stepped out of her way as she passed.

“Hurt him and your life won’t be worth living.”

Sherlock’s voice was low, timed as Mycroft turned to nod at Mrs. Hudson, and Greg would have bet money he didn’t want his brother to hear. The words were directed at Greg in such a pleasant tone it took a moment for their meaning to sink in.

_He cares for his brother. Still doesn’t know why I’m here, but suspects it’s personal._

“Brother.” Mycroft and Sherlock nodded to each other as Sherlock and the tea lady – Mrs. Hudson, apparently – disappeared down the stairs. Greg stood up, his palms suddenly damp.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to do this, but I have to thank my beta, storywrangler and all around cheerleader extraordinaire, Saratonin. Without her help and support we wouldn't be here so much thanks and love are in order.  
Also, the chapter count has been updated. Thanks go out to PaiaLovesPie for getting WIP month off the ground on twitter - it's made me plan out the rest of this story and more or less know how much further we have to go.

Mycroft was wearing a different suit this time. It was just as beautifully cut, but somehow made him look even less approachable than the last. The blood red tie and pocket square didn’t help either. Greg swallowed hard, realising he hadn’t planned this far. He’d figured it would take a bit of time to get in touch, or at least that he’d have some warning before he saw Mycroft face to face, but now they were standing on opposite sides of his brother’s sitting room barely two hours after Greg landed.

He made himself meet Mycroft’s eyes, hoping to find some shred of welcome, but their expression was carefully blank. Greg allowed himself to search for a moment. Was Mycroft angry? He didn’t seem to be. If anything, Greg thought he looked…defensive. As though he was waiting for whatever Greg had to say, and how he would say it. Waiting for Greg to set the tone, perhaps. That wasn’t the worst scenario Greg’s mind had supplied on the way over, and he thought I wasn’t terrible. More like…neutral.

The possibility that Mycroft was nervous occurred to him too, and the slightest chance of that being true buoyed Greg into speaking.

_Start slow. Unthreatening._

“Hi,” he said, almost wincing at the greeting.

“Good morning. I am surprised to see you,” Mycroft replied, the words sounding formal in the still air. Greg wondered fleetingly if Sherlock was eavesdropping. He had the definite impression Sherlock didn’t really think social norms applied to him.

_It doesn’t matter. Focus on Mycroft._

Greg opened his mouth to reply, but decided against it, instead watching Mycroft’s face. It was pretty impassive, but his eyes weren’t quite as carefully guarded as they had been. The flicker of surprise when Mycroft first saw him – as though the hidden camera might have lied – followed by this careful interest as Greg walked slowly forward told Greg he wasn’t going to just leave.

“Thanks for coming,” Greg said quietly.

“I believe you travelled further than I,” Mycroft replied. “I could hardly refuse to see you.”

“Yes you could,” Greg said. The disbelieving huff and slight frown he felt his face making were automatic – did Mycroft really think he was obliged to see Greg? “I’m not the…Ambassador to Wherever, Mycroft. This isn’t work.”

“I know,” Mycroft replied stiffly.

Greg waited again. He knew he was employing some of his interrogation skills, and it was equally apparent that Mycroft knew it too. He shifted a little, fingers flexing on the frankly enormous umbrella he was resting against, and one eyebrow finally rose.

“Was there a reason you wanted to see me?” Mycroft asked finally. “It’s a long way to travel for us to stand together in silence.”

_He wants to know. Curious, or hopeful?_

Greg nodded, wiping his palms on the sides of his trousers. “I didn’t come here for that,” he said. Why was it so hard to explain? He took a deep breath. “Look, I know we didn’t exactly have a conversation about what would happen after we left Gander. But the last thing you said before we left – the last important thing – was that we should talk. And we never did. Not really. So I decided to come. To talk.”

“We could have spoken over the phone-” Mycroft started, but Greg cut him off.

“No. No, we couldn’t,” he said, trying to soften his tone. _Don’t scare him off. _The fear was rising in him again, and he struggled to push it down, emotions warring within him. “I’m sorry, I’m not angry, I just…” he took a deep breath and looked at Mycroft, feeling the silence grow again, each second filled with more swirling emotion.

“Gregory,” Mycroft began, but stopped.

“Okay, I have no idea what you were going to say,” Greg blurted. “I know what I wanted you to say, but I don’t want to put words in your mouth,” he broke off, drawing a deep breath that felt more like a sob as his breathing hitched.

Mycroft’s eyebrow twitched, and his lips hardly moved as he murmured,

“Perhaps when we are calmer.”

“Calmer?” Greg said, and Mycroft’s slight turn away from him broke the dam. He wasn’t shouting, but he recognised the ‘I’m your superior officer listen to me’ tone in his voice.

“I haven’t been calm for hours, Mycroft. I’m not angry. I’m scared. That you’ll refuse to talk to me. That I won’t have any way of getting in touch with you and we’ll end up living these parallel lives in the same city, without ever seeing each other, except that you might be able to see me when you want to because you can probably arrange that. That I won’t be able to explain this properly, and that you’ll think I’m angry at you when I’m really not, I’m just so scared that we might lose this, Mycroft, because I don’t know if you noticed but those few days were incredible and I’ve never met someone like you, someone that’s honest and funny and actually gives a shit about me and who I am and that bit sounds selfish but I don’t really know if you know how rare that is and I thought I had it before but it was never like this and I don’t want to let you go.”

Greg forced himself to stop, pressing together lips that barely felt connected to his face.

_I have fucked this up so badly._

The thought pounded through his head, but he stood upright. It was the only thing he could still do, the smallest possible way of clinging to the last fibre of his dignity, should it still exist. He was breathing hard, face tingling and hot, tears tickling as they rolled down his face. Fists so tight the tension in his knuckles was painful. He could use some water, and he tore his eyes from Mycroft’s to walk over to the kitchen, leaning on the table for support. There were glasses in the dish drainer and he picked one up, filling it from the tap and raising it to his lips.

“Don’t drink that.”

It wasn’t Mycroft’s words that made him stop, but the hand on his arm. Greg had been so busy working out what to say he hadn’t even sensed Mycroft approaching.

“My brother’s kitchen is not always food safe.”

Greg hesitated, then poured the water down the sink. When he replaced the glass his hand joined its partner, propping him up against the edge of the sink; he could feel the metal in a cold, hard line against his palms. The shame of his outburst made him want to leave, but he couldn’t go, not without hearing the words from Mycroft.

_I don’t want to be with you._

He wanted to turn, to chase the hint of Mycroft’s scent teasing his nose, but he couldn’t do it. Shifting his weight would be the first error, and from there it would be impossible not to bury his face in Mycroft’s neck, hands clenched into expensive suit fabric as he tried to draw Mycroft deep into his own body forever. No. Mycroft had to do something. Say something to keep this going. Or not. His silence would be as clear a message as anything, and Greg waited, tension singing through his body.

_Please don’t let this go…._

“Will you return to the sitting room with me?” Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded without looking. When he heard Mycroft stepping away he followed, and they found themselves standing in almost the same places again. It was odd, as though the intervening moments had not happened, except that they had. Mycroft leaned his umbrella against the wall and took a moment to hang his overcoat. Greg would have thought he was just being pedantic except for the tremor in his fingers as he smoothed the lapels.

_He feels something._

The tiny clue was a start, at least. This whole disaster wasn’t leaving him unaffected, no matter what his suit might say.

“I have disconnected the surveillance for the time being,” Mycroft said as he turned back to Greg. His eyes met Greg’s, and the analogy to their previous conversation in this room evaporated with the expression contained within the grey. From this far away Greg couldn’t quite tell what it meant, but it was different than earlier.

“Oh,” Greg replied. He wouldn’t care if this conversation was broadcast before the FA Cup final as long as it happened. “Okay.”

The pause before Mycroft spoke was familiar now, and it eased Greg’s mind further. He always considered what he was going to say. That tiny piece of knowledge was a double edged sword, bringing hope and pain in equal measures.

“When I said we should talk, I had no idea how I would frame my thoughts,” Mycroft began. “I had hoped we might eat first to give me time.” He paused and Greg half expected a smile, but his face remained grave. “I still don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

Greg nodded, swallowing down his nerves. _He’s still willing to be vulnerable with me. We might actually have a shot at this conversation…_

“Me either,” he said. “As you maybe could tell. Sorry about all that.” He felt his face heat up and was sure it would be visible.

“No,” Mycroft said, eyes widening, and he took half a step forward. “Please, don’t apologise. So few people actually say what they mean to me. It’s,” he hesitated.

“Say it,” Greg said, his heart in his mouth. “Please.”

“It’s one of the things I have enjoyed,” Mycroft admitted. “About our time together.”

“That I don’t have a filter?” Greg said, the half-joke slipping out without him realising.

“That you chose not to filter your meaning,” Mycroft said. “There is a difference. Some people have no control over it. But you chose your words carefully in consideration of me.” He leaned on the word ‘chose’, and Greg realised that was the important part to Mycroft.

_Choice._

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I guess…that’s true.” He frowned. “But that happens for you anyway, doesn’t it? I mean, people are careful what they say with you.”

Mycroft inclined his head. “They are careful with their words, but even more careful with their meaning, their opinions,” he said. “And they are considering the power I wield rather than me.”

“What, a minor government official like yourself?” Greg replied with half a smile.

“We both know that’s not the case,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Yeah,” Greg said. The fact that he’d shut down their ongoing joke made Greg realise how serious this conversation was for him. Okay. Time to ask a hard question. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“What do I want?” Mycroft repeated.

“Now that we’re not in Gander any more. The real world is right here.” Greg tried to make it a little amusing, but it fell flat. “The ‘we should talk’ conversation basically comes down to ‘what do you want’ and ‘what do I want’ and ‘can we make those things work together’.”

“I don’t know if I’ve considered what I want,” Mycroft said hesitantly.

_Jesus._

“Okay, what have you considered?” Greg asked.

“I said that we were not well suited,” Mycroft said.

“I remember,” Greg said. The moment was seared into his heart. He waited for Mycroft to speak again, not wanting to debate until Mycroft actually gave an opinion.

_Come on sweetheart. Be honest with me. Be brave for me. Please._

“Our lives are so different,” Mycroft said.

“Yes,” Greg said. _Everyone’s lives are different._

“My work is demanding,” Mycroft said.

“Yes,” Greg said. _So’s mine._

“You live in the United States,” Mycroft added.

_He’s listing logistical problems. Not personal ones. Not used to thinking about himself._

“Yes,” Greg replied, “that was what worried me too.”

Mycroft frowned. “Past tense?” he asked.

_Careful language._

“Yes,” Greg replied. “Until about four people pointed out that it would only be for a few more months and then I’d be home.”

“Four people?” Mycroft repeated.

Greg shrugged. “It was apparently quite clear to most of Gander that you and I were,” he frowned, reaching for the memory, “’truly gone on each other,’ I think that was how Matty put it.”

“Oh,” Mycroft whispered.

“Several people said the same thing. Independently,” Greg added, careful not to mention names. He didn’t want to get David in trouble. He could see Mycroft processing this new information.

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Mycroft said tentatively. “The distance we would have to endure.”

Greg’s heart, already galloping at a decent pace, managed to pound harder as he bit back his immediate reply. Mycroft was asking for his opinion, and in a way that made Greg think he’d already decided what response he’d get.

_Was that why you shut us down? You’d made up your mind about how I felt already?_

He wasn’t angry or upset about it; instead Greg felt a blossom of empathy for Mycroft. His huge brain had obviously taken everything he believed about himself into account. He’d bet his pension Mycroft had concluded that Greg wouldn’t want to be inconvenienced by a bit of water for a short while. Greg wondered if Mycroft even considered asking him, or if the idea of hearing it aloud was too much.

_Better to just go our separate ways and never see each other again._

_Oh, Mycroft._

“It does,” Greg replied finally, keeping his voice calm, “but not as much as being told we aren’t well suited.”

Mycroft’s face flushed and he looked embarrassed.

“Whether we are well suited or not has nothing to do with geography or security clearances,” Greg said carefully. “That stuff…it can change. It’s not as important as listening to someone. Caring about them.”

“Saving them the last Timbit?” Mycroft asked, and the fact that he’d chosen a witty comeback, no matter how small, made Greg’s heart soar.

“Exactly,” Greg replied, daring to soften his eyes affectionately.

Mycroft was quiet for a long time. Greg waited, dust motes floating patiently across the room in the pale English sunlight, ducking in and out of beams of weak light from the window. He felt oddly calm now, as though Mycroft was going to give some kind of verdict. He wondered if this was how Mycroft had felt earlier, waiting for him to begin. Would Mycroft want to continue their conversation? Did he have other objections to their seeing each other again?

Finally, Mycroft spoke.

“What did you mean?” he asked.

“When?” Greg asked. He suspected he knew, and when Mycroft raised his hands to copy the BSL message, his suspicion was confirmed.

_Kevin was wrong._

“Kevin was wrong,” Greg murmured.

“Kevin said a lot of things,” Mycroft replied. “I thought…the first quote I remembered was, ‘Changed my life.’ But I couldn’t think why, if that was incorrect, you would come all the way to London to tell me.”

“No,” Greg said. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Please tell me,” Mycroft said, and the whispered words were as close to begging as Greg had seen. The subtext was as loud as the spoken words.

_Convince me. Tell me why you’ve come all this way._

“Kevin also said, ‘I changed and everything else seemed different.’”

Mycroft nodded, eyes wary as he tried to figure it out.

“I haven’t changed,” Greg said, feeling emotion rise again in him. “For the first time, I haven’t had to change. I’ve just been me, exactly me, and,” he took a deep breath, “that was enough.”

“Enough?” Mycroft whispered.

“Enough for you,” Greg said. “You didn’t want me to be taller, or less grey, or more powerful, or richer. You just liked me being…me.”

“So Kevin was wrong?”

“Well, he was right about some things,” Greg said.

“Such as?” Mycroft replied. His shoulders were more relaxed now; it was a subtle difference, given his naturally erect posture, but he looked less uptight, and Greg took it as a good sign.

“It changed my life,” Greg said, holding his eyes. “And I know I’ll go back.”

“And,” Mycroft said quietly, “it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Greg’s heart heaved. It was the first really definitive thing Mycroft had said in this whole conversation.

“Really?”

He allowed himself to ask the first question that had come to mind. _If he can be vulnerable, I can be too._

Mycroft nodded, his face sombre again.

“Kevin did say a lot of things,” Greg said. “I was deliberately vague, I knew you’d remember everything and I had to make sure you’d come.” It was important to say it. “I’m sorry.”

“I might not have, had your message been clearer,” Mycroft admitted. He stepped closer, still thinking, and when he stopped only a breath from Greg it made his breath catch.

_Far closer than would be socially acceptable._

_Holy shit._

“I had convinced myself you saw our connection as a holiday romance,” Mycroft admitted. “Something to pass the time, perhaps.” He hesitated, the flash of fear in his eyes preceding his next words. “I ignored a significant amount of evidence to the contrary. In convincing myself.”

“Why?” Greg asked. He thought he knew, but in this conversation, he wanted there to be no room for misunderstandings.

A slight frown crossed his face, and to Greg’s surprise Mycroft looked down. His own gaze dropped too, so he saw Mycroft’s hand reach for his, hesitant fingers picking up his own. The touch made him shiver.

“I had never imagined I might meet someone with whom I would be so well suited,” Mycroft said quietly. He swallowed, the frown still marring his brow, and he addressed his next words to Greg’s hand. “I feared you might not feel the same. I could not have borne it,” he whispered. “Hearing the words.”

Greg nodded, fingers curling around Mycroft’s, hardly able to believe their conversation had come to this point. “The best defence is a good offence?” he said quietly.

“Entirely so,” Mycroft said without even the hint of a smile. “So I believe it is I who must offer my deepest apologies.” He swallowed. “I could hear your confusion on the plane and it,” he paused, “I would say, ‘broke my heart’, if it’s not too dramatic a statement.”

“It’s not,” Greg said immediately, stepping closer and taking Mycroft’s hand more securely in his own. The physical contact again was incredible. It helped prove this was real; his head was halfway thinking it was all made up, that he would wake up soon in Dallas to the sound of the crying baby.

Greg tried for levity again. “I mean, it’s fairly dramatic, but I wouldn’t say too dramatic.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Mycroft’s face. “I’m pleased to hear we’re on the same page.”

“Are we?” Greg asked, immediately taking the opportunity to ask the question. “Are we…what are you thinking?” He wanted to say more, but bit his tongue.

_Give him space to think._

“You really are planning to return to London in the new year?” Mycroft asked.

“I am,” Greg said.

“And…if I might ask bluntly, lest we misunderstanding each other…” Mycroft took a deep breath, his grey eyes pinned to Greg, “you would be interested in…seeing me when you return?”

“I would,” Greg said. “Exclusively.” He drew a deep breath of his own, squeezing Mycroft’s fingers in his own shaking ones. “Is that…does that sound like something you’d want too?”

Mycroft nodded. “There would be…considerations. Security measures to be enacted, were we to see each other intimately.” His face coloured. “The background checks would be extensive.”

“That’s fine,” Greg said immediately. Anyone could know whatever they wanted about him, if it meant he was allowed to see Mycroft.

“You’re sure?” Mycroft said, and the anxiety was clear in his eyes. “It wouldn’t be too invasive?”

“No,” Greg said. He shrugged. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to get a visa to work in the US? Even with the British Government behind me?” Heart in his mouth, he eased closer to Mycroft, until the front of that expertly cut suit was mere centimetres from his chest. “If it means I get to spend time with you,” he said, “I’ll sail across the Atlantic on my own.”

Mycroft blinked. “You can sail?”

“Well, no,” Greg admitted, “I get terribly seasick, but it was the best I could come up with.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said. He hesitated before smiling a cautious smile. “If you are genuinely unconcerned about the distance or the bureaucracy,” he took a deep breath, “I must remind you of my personal lack of experience in relationships. Are you sure that is something you wish to take on?”

“Take on?” Greg repeated. “I’m not ‘taking it on’, Mycroft, any more than you’re ‘taking on’ my two ex-wives or anything else about my past. I am interested in a relationship with you, exactly as you are. And I look forward to finding out about you, the good and the bad. And there’s good and bad about me, and trust me, I’m just as nervous about revealing some of mine as you are about yours.”

Mycroft looked sceptical.

“This is what it’s like, Mycroft,” Greg said gently. “Starting something new is always a bit of a gamble. You have to decide if the payoff might be worth the risk.” He leaned closer, bringing his free hand up to cup Mycroft’s face, tense just in case Mycroft shied away.

“And you…genuinely believe I’m worth the risk?” Mycroft asked, the incredulity heavy in his voice.

“I do,” Greg murmured, and without another moment’s pause he leaned close to press his lips to Mycroft’s. He was prepared to pull back if there was any resistance, but Mycroft melted into him as though he’d been waiting for this exact moment. Greg felt a hand on his back, pulling him closer as Mycroft’s head eased to the side, changing the angle of their mouths. To Greg’s astonishment he felt Mycroft’s lips parting, his tongue reaching out to stroke Greg’s lips; the only response possible was to reciprocate, and within seconds they were clinging to each other, their mouths glued together as though the hours of separation had never happened. Greg could barely think, his head full of relief and the kind of exaltation he associated with a rollercoaster dropping down a steep slope. Mycroft was just as he remembered, though an edge of desperation was evident in the tight grip of his fingers and the whimpers Greg could hear over his pounding heart.


	24. Chapter 24

“Perhaps you could sully your own flat, brother dear.”

Sherlock’s voice broke into the world they’d created together, and Greg jumped. He’d forgotten the brother even existed; as he blinked back the hormones still rushing around his body, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Endearing as this little scene has been, it would be delightful for you both to vacate my front room immediately,” Sherlock continued, flopping down into the same chair he’d been occupying when Greg arrived.

“Certainly,” Mycroft managed, straightening his collar where Greg’s fingers had started to creep underneath. “Thank you for your discretion as usual, brother.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. He’d steepled his fingers and closed his eyes, and Greg had the impression he’d been summarily dismissed.

He was going to speak, but one glance at Mycroft’s resignation and Greg decided to follow in silence instead. It had taken barely a second for Mycroft to grab his coat and umbrella; Greg clattered down the stairs behind him, bag in hand, feeling ungainly in comparison.

When they stepped outside, a sleek black town car was waiting. It managed to look official and intimidating as hell just by idling at the kerb.

_Jesus._

“After you,” Mycroft said, indicating Greg should precede him into the back seat.

The interior was leather, and Greg slid across to the far side, breathing in the subtly expensive new car smell while Mycroft spoke with the driver. His bag, pretty new by his standards, suddenly looked very shabby as he stowed it by his feet. Only a second later Mycroft leaned back beside Greg, and the car accelerated smoothly away.

“Don’t forget to fasten your seatbelt,” Mycroft murmured.

“Right,” Greg replied, fumbling over his shoulder, still a bit taken aback by the car, and the driver, and Mycroft’s obvious ease with the situation. “Um, where are we going, exactly?”

“My flat,” Mycroft said, glancing at him. “I assume you have no accommodation planned for the evening?”

“No,” Greg said. “I wasn’t sure how things would go. Well, I didn’t really think about it, actually.”

Mycroft nodded. “I have a guest suite,” he said.

_Of course you do._

Mycroft’s life was rapidly proving itself to be far more comfortable than Greg had imagined.

“If it’s alright with you,” Greg said.

Mycroft looked at him steadily then pressed a button on the door. A privacy screen rose between the backseat and the front, effectively cutting them off from the driver.

“My preference would be for you to share my bed,” he said, the words quiet. “But I would understand if you would prefer some space this evening.”

“Are you kidding?” Greg replied, relief flowing through him. “I’ll have to fly back to Dallas tomorrow or the day after. I want to be as close to you as I can while I’m here. As much as you want.”

“Very well,” Mycroft managed. He pulled out his phone and murmured, “Excuse me a moment,” as he began to type. Greg reached over and wound their free hands together, and the rest of their trip passed in silence. He couldn’t tell if it was awkward or not. There was certainly something stopping them from being completely comfortable, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was.

When they arrived Mycroft eased their hands free and tucked his phone back into his pocket. The building was imposing, identical to its neighbours, but Mycroft strode up the steps and inside without a second glance. Greg took his lead, stopping a few paces behind as Mycroft spoke to a receptionist that Greg would bet had advanced combat training and probably immediate access to a firearm.

“Please look at the painting, Detective Inspector,” the receptionist asked him, gesturing behind the desk. Greg did, assuming they were taking some kind of security image of him, then provided fingerprints before he was permitted to accompany Mycroft into the lift. A passkey activated it, and they rode again in silence. This time the tension was almost palpable, and Greg could feel apprehension radiating from Mycroft.

They finally stepped into Mycroft’s flat, the door closing quietly behind them.

“Jesus,” Greg muttered under his breath. The place was gorgeous. As if the receptionist-cum-bouncer wasn’t enough to clue him in, every fixing and piece of furniture screamed luxury. None of it was tasteless, but it would be impossible not to spend time here and be exceptionally aware of how much everything cost.

Greg was suddenly very aware of exactly how much _his_ jacket cost. Probably less than the lamp on that table, actually.

“Welcome to my home,” Mycroft said from behind him.

Greg didn’t realise he’d stepped a few paces further into the hall than Mycroft, and he turned around. The umbrella and coat were hanging behind the door, and Mycroft stood, apprehension written all over his face.

_That’s what it is. He’s worried I’ll be put off._

“It’s very nice,” Greg said, stepping close to ease his arms around Mycroft for a hug. “Thank you for having me,” he added, pressing the words into Mycroft’s neck. He stood, enjoying the moment even more when Mycroft squeezed him in return.

“Thank you for coming,” Mycroft whispered, and Greg could feel him shaking, the fine motion vibrating through both their bodies. It could have meant _thank you for coming to my home _but Greg was pretty sure he actually meant _thank you for coming to England_, instead. He couldn’t think of the right response, so he just held Mycroft a little tighter. After a while, they both relaxed enough to stand up straight.

“Are you hungry?” Mycroft asked, his eyes studying Greg’s face.

“Kind of,” Greg said. “I think I’m more tired than anything.”

“Jetlag?”

“I have no idea,” Greg said with a rueful grin. “Between leaving London, a few days in Canada, a few hours in Dallas and now back here…I don’t think my brain has much of an idea about what time it is. But I could definitely do with some sleep.”

“Why don’t I order something to eat first?” Mycroft asked, studying Greg’s face for his reaction. “Would changing clothes help?”

“I’m alright,” Greg said.

There was an awkward conversation about what they should eat, and Greg was relieved when Mycroft mentioned he had a good Indian up the road. He didn’t care what they ate, he just needed to eat something, maybe grab a shower and then get some sleep. He and Mycroft needed to talk a bit more, but more than anything else he just wanted to be close for a while. His brain was still catching up, and a hazy contentment was stealing over him. He was here, in Mycroft’s place, planning to sleep in Mycroft’s bed tonight. The rest was just details.

He found himself in the kitchen, watching Mycroft find cutlery and fill tumblers with water.

“You’ll have to work tomorrow?” Greg asked, taking some water.

“In the afternoon, yes,” Mycroft said. “I’ve rescheduled the morning meetings.”

“Okay,” Greg said. He glanced at his watch then realised how useless it was. “What time is it now, actually?”

“Four twelve in the afternoon,” Mycroft replied.

“Shouldn’t you be at work now?” Greg asked. “I thought you worked a lot?”

“I do,” Mycroft replied. “I’ve taken some…personal time. A family concern,” he coloured as he spoke, “borne out by my immediate trip to my brother’s house and then back here.”

Greg frowned, his slow brain taking a second to realise why Mycroft looked somewhere between uncomfortable and defiant.

“You skivved off for me?” Greg asked with a grin.

“You are a terrible influence,” Mycroft replied, shifting his weight and taking a water glass in a blatant effort as distraction.

_I am so glad I came._

“I am,” Greg agreed with as much fake sincerity as he could muster. “I’m guessing you don’t often take personal time, then?”

“No,” Mycroft replied. “Other than some time at Christmas with my parents, and the times I’ve had to help my brother, I tend to be available to work most hours.”

Greg nodded. Mycroft looked uncomfortable with the admission, but Greg was glad he’d been honest. It didn’t surprise him, given the clearly high position Mycroft held, but there was still a whisper of unease. He was used to being the one that worked too much. How would he feel about seeing someone that wasn’t always available? How would things work if they didn’t see each other all that much? He was hardly in a position to protest, and he raised his glass to cover the frown he was hoping had disappeared before it fully expressed itself.

“I know how that feels,” he said in a belated response. “To be working all the time, I mean. Sometimes if a case is on it’s all I do.”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg wondered if the same thoughts were going through his head. Mycroft was a worrier, that much was evident. It would make sense if they were both nervous, he told himself. This would be new, and there would be adjustments while he was in Dallas, and then again when he returned to London.

Before either could speak there was a discreet chime.

“The food has arrived,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg waited while he answered the door. The smell preceded him into the room, and Greg breathed deeply. The combination of spices was unmistakable and he groaned. Mycroft glanced at him, supressing a grin when Greg followed him across the kitchen.

“Haven’t found a decent Indian in Dallas,” Greg said. “Not like the ones here. Their Tex-Mex is incredible, but it’s not the same.”

“I wasn’t sure what your preference would be,” Mycroft said. He’d ordered several mains, rice and naan; it looked and smelled amazing, rich and heavy and exactly what Greg wanted.

“My preference is eating with you,” Greg said with a grin, and he was relieved to see Mycroft return it.

They filled their plates before moving to sit at the table together. It was Greg’s turn to hold in a smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate Indian at a table, let alone with proper cutlery. He concentrated on eating for a few moments, and when he was half done, he glanced over at Mycroft.

“Remind me to send Addie a message before I turn in,” he said. “She was pretty invested in what was happening.”

“She was?” Mycroft asked. He arched one eyebrow, encouraging Greg to explain.

“Yes,” Greg replied through a mouthful. He swallowed before adding, “I was a bit surprised actually.”

Mycroft took a moment before asking, “What in particular surprised you about her reaction?”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t think she cared that you’re a bloke, or that you’re in London or anything. I just…didn’t really think she would be so excited that I told her I’d met someone.”

Mycroft nodded. “Do you not believe she’s interested in your life?”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Greg said. It was hard to explain. “Did I tell you she named the baby after me?”

“She did?” Mycroft asked. “I thought the baby was a girl?”

“Alexandra,” Greg confirmed. “After my middle name.”

Mycroft paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Your middle name is Alexander?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “After my grandfather.”

“As is mine,” Mycroft told him. “After my grandfather, also.”

Greg grinned. It was superficial, of course, but felt like another fine line of connection. “Wow, that’s amazing,” he said. “Well that was a surprise too. We hadn’t really discussed baby names, but I mean, naming the baby after me, and then she was really insistent I should come over here to speak to you.”

“I am glad she was,” Mycroft said. They ate for a few moments more, and Greg had the impression Mycroft was trying to figure out how to put something into words. Eventually, when he hadn’t spoken, Greg replied, and he felt the mounting tension in Mycroft relax. Maybe he’d been waiting for Greg to affirm him, instead.

“So am I,” Greg said, their hands reaching for each other at the same time. There was a pause as they smiled into each other’s eyes, then Greg picked up his fork again. He sighed, then put it down. “Can’t eat another bite,” he said. “That was great, thank you.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “If you don’t mind me continuing our conversation, had you imagined you and Adrienne would lose contact when you returned to London?”

Greg tilted his head, considering the question. “I don’t think I’ve really thought about it,” he said. “Haven’t really had time, I guess, with figuring out how things needed to be in Dallas. I mean, I know we’d keep in touch, and I would definitely have been keeping tabs on her a bit, making sure she and the baby are okay. And sending her some money, that kind of thing. But I wasn’t really sure she’d want to keep properly in touch, you know?” He huffed a laugh. “I mean, I’m not her dad, not even really a proper step-dad, I just helped her out a bit and then I’m buggering off back to London.”

It felt silly to put it into words. Part of Greg knew he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t that important, but that vein of self-doubt ran deep and he wasn’t entirely prepared to share it with Mycroft yet.

_Fake some self-esteem, mate. It’s worked so far._

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” Mycroft said, “she may have a different perspective than you do on your role in her life. You said you’d bonded. Surely she felt the same?”

“I guess,” Greg said. “I mean, I know she was grateful I helped her out.”

Mycroft was asking the questions Greg wasn’t really ready to deal with, but as his heart started pounding and he opened his mouth to change the subject, he remembered Gander. Remembered how far out of his comfort zone Mycroft had allowed himself to be pushed. Remembered how hard Mycroft had tried to explain himself to Greg.

_Don’t drop out on him now. If he can give real answers to the difficult questions I asked, the least I can do is try to do the same._

_Fuck this is hard._

Mycroft stopped stacking their plates and looked at Greg. “I feel like you’re downplaying your role in her life, Greg. You postponed moving home, prevented her being taken into foster care and protected her from her abusive ex-boyfriend. You built her a support network to ensure her ongoing safety when you had to return home.”

Greg felt his face flush at the bald statements. They made him sound like some kind of fucking superhero. He just did what any decent person would do, didn’t he? “Well, yeah,” he said. “I mean, what else was I supposed to do?”

The tilt of Mycroft’s head made Greg feel like he might have spoken his thoughts aloud along with his feeble attempt at humour.

“A lot of people would have done a lot less,” Mycroft said, “and it clearly means a lot to Adrienne.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, trying to accept what Mycroft was saying without blowing it off. _Fuck, this is hard._ “I guess so.”

“Would you like a shower before we retire?” Mycroft asked, taking the dirty plates to the sink for rinsing.

“Yeah,” Greg replied, relieved the conversation seemed to be over. “Can I help with that?”

“It’s done,” Mycroft replied, stacking the dishes in the dishwasher and putting the leftovers in the fridge. “Can I show you where the bathroom is?”

“Yes please,” Greg replied. “Oh, wait, I have to message Addie.”

“If I could ask you to leave my name out of your message,” Mycroft said, his voice apologetic. “Security, you understand. Such a distinctive name can be a drawback.”

“Of course,” Greg said. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick message.

_Found M. We talked, I’m staying with him for a bit. About to go to bed, though. I’ll call you tomorrow. Please call him M in our texts. I’ll explain tomorrow. Love to you all. _

_– G xx_

_So it went well?! Excellent. Delilah’s convinced the doctor to let me go home tomorrow. Elijah’s going to come and help me get around for a few days. Xx Can’t wait for your call! _

_–_ _ Addie and Lexi_

Greg smiled and turned his phone off. There was nobody else he needed to contact, and right now he just wanted to be clean and asleep.


	25. Chapter 25

The next morning, Greg woke, stretching and blinking in the light. Nothing was familiar – the bed, the angle of the light, the feel of the sheets – but then he rolled and his whole being was filled with _Mycroft_. Now that was something he remembered. They’d each showered – separately this time – and Mycroft lent Greg some pyjamas and a t-shirt to sleep in. They’d turned in together, freshly cleaned teeth flashing in nervous smiles as they settled into the bed, and before Greg could wonder if he should cross the space between them, Mycroft had scooted over. He snuggled into Greg’s side, and Greg automatically lifted one arm to accommodate him. Although neither spoke, it was perfect. None of his earlier doubts had even entered his mind, and Greg fell asleep almost immediately.

Now, in the morning light, Greg could see Mycroft was still asleep. He took a minute, allowing his eyes to linger, still amazed at everything that had happened yesterday. His eyes traced patterns of freckles down the side of Mycroft’s face, dancing across the skin. There was a faint scar in front of his ear, and Greg wondered what happened. A question for another time, maybe.

Without disturbing him, Greg rolled carefully over, unplugged his phone and padded out of the room. He grabbed the blanket from the end of the sofa and wrapped it around himself before calling Addie. The phone was already ringing before he remembered it would be far earlier there, and when she answered, sounding sleepy, he cursed.

“Shit, sorry, it’s so early there.”

“It’s fine,” Addie said. “Nobody with a newborn keeps regular hours, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Greg said. He’d forgotten about that. “How’s she doing?”

“Fine,” Addie said. “Which is to say she just wants to be held all the time, and she basically just eats and poops. And looks adorable.”

“I remember,” Greg said with a smile. “How’re you feeling?”

“Sore,” Addie admitted. “But Delilah’s making sure I’m taking everything I’m supposed to, and the surgeon was happy enough with my progress to let me go home, so now I’m just camped out here on the couch until my legs heal enough.”

“It’s gonna take ages,” Greg said, guilt washing over him. _I should have been there._ “I’m so sorry, Addie.”

“It is not your fault,” Addie said firmly. Greg remembered the determination on her face when he’d tried to apologise at the hospital, right before he’d left. She would barely let him get the words out then, and it sounded like she was doing the same now.

“Yeah, but-” he tried, but she cut him off.

“If you hadn’t done everything you’d done, he would have killed me,” she said. “And Lexi.”

“You’d have been in foster care,” Greg protested weakly. “They would have done something.”

“And the second I turned eighteen I would have been on my own,” she reminded him. “And now I have Delilah and everybody, and you too. You did more than anyone. Even my mother.”

Greg nodded, remembering his conversation with Mycroft, trying to accept her words as truth, twisting a loose thread between his fingers. “If you’d rather I stay,” he began.

“No way!” she said indignantly. “Not now you’ve finally found something for yourself. You deserve to be happy, Greg. Now, no more talk about me, I want to hear every word of this conversation. There isn’t a recording of some kind, is there?”

“No,” Greg said, though he actually wondered at exactly how much surveillance there was in Sherlock’s flat. “I found him through his brother. He’s, um, kind of important. But it’s all hush hush.”

“So that’s why I can’t say his name?” Addie said. “Wow, Greg, scored yourself a big fish?”

“Something like that,” Greg said, grinning at her enthusiasm. Talking about Mycroft was a lot more fun than talking about himself. “So I couldn’t get in touch directly, so I found his brother and he…passed on a message. And we talked. And I explained…everything-“

“-I’ll want more details later, but continue,” Addie said.

Greg ignored her and went on, “and…he said he would be interested. In seeing me.” He felt his face heat as his mouth widened into a grin as he remembered how nervous he’d been.

“You’re lacking in detail but otherwise I’m so happy to hear it,” Addie said. “So you stayed at his place?”

“Yes,” Greg said.

“And does that mean…” Addie said, the mirth in her voice clear even from across the Atlantic.

“That means his brother kicked us out of his front room,” Greg said.

“Were you kissing?” Addie said, her singsong voice dissolving into giggles.

“Yes, actually,” Greg replied, shaking his head as he smiled. “Anyway, I’ll try and get a flight back tomorrow. But I wanted to check you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Addie said. “I’m far more interested in what’s happening with you.”

“We’ll talk some more today,” Greg started.

“I’m sure you will,” Addie said, heavy on the double meaning.

“And I’ll still stay in Dallas until the New Year,” Greg said, ignoring her giggles. “And I’ll come back to visit, I promise.”

Addie snorted. “I’d rather you fly us over there,” she said. “Don’t go backwards, Greg.”

“What?”

“Keep moving forward. Make a life in London. Be my rich older relative that flies me over to visit every other year.” He could hear her grin as she added, “Pay for Lexi’s gap year. But don’t come back unless it’s for a holiday.”

_Relative. She thinks of me as a relative?_

“How did you get so wise?” Greg asked her. “Except for the rich part, that’s not even close.”

“I know this guy,” she said. “Great role model. Talks a bit funny, though.”

“Cheeky,” Greg muttered with a smile on his face. “Alright, well if you’re okay I’ll let you get some sleep.”

“Okay, talk soon,” Addie said.

Greg ended the call, pulling his phone inside the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. She sounded okay. She sounded happy for him. Mycroft’s words sounded again in Greg’s mind, and he considered them.

_She may have a different perspective than you do on your role in her life._

Maybe she really did see it differently than he did. It didn’t seem so much to him – he couldn’t have imagined just leaving her – but given that her mother, her flesh and blood, had done that exact thing, perhaps it was bigger to her than to him.

_Maybe she’s not so hard on you as you are on yourself._

He was still mulling it over when Mycroft appeared in the doorway. His dressing gown was tied over his pyjamas, and he smiled at Greg as their eyes met. Greg set aside the problem in his mind and returned Mycroft’s smile.

“Good morning,” Mycroft said, padding across the room to sit beside Greg on the sofa. “I trust you slept well?”

“I did,” Greg replied. “I hope I didn’t wake you. Wanted to call Addie.”

Mycroft frowned. “It’s quite early there, isn’t it?” he said. He tucked the edge of Greg’s blanket under his knee, long fingers smoothing the fabric.

“Yeah,” Greg winced, “but she’s up and down with the baby so it didn’t matter too much.”

Mycroft nodded. “And she’s well?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “They’re home now, and they have some extra help. Sounds like Delilah’s on top of it.”

“It sounds like you chose well,” Mycroft said.

“Mmmm,” Greg hummed. He eased over until he was sitting right beside Mycroft. “Good morning,” he said, smiling as he leaned in to kiss Mycroft.

A slow coil of warm happiness rolled through him as Mycroft kissed him back, one hand resting on his thigh as their mouths slowly pressed and slid against each other. Greg stretched one hand up to cup Mycroft’s face, wanting the extra comfort of more skin contact. The blanket slid from his shoulders as he reached over, and though Mycroft’s kisses were lovely, Greg shivered in the cool air.

“Come back to bed?” he asked. “Where it’s warmer.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied.

Greg kissed him again – it was impossible not to – then pulled him up, and they walked slowly back through the flat together. The air was definitely colder than he was comfortable with, and the sheets were cool where he’d left them. When he scooted immediately across to Mycroft he was relieved Mycroft was turning to him as well.

“I’m cold,” Greg said with a grin. Their noses were practically touching and he was fairly sure they were sharing Mycroft’s pillow.

“I can tell,” Mycroft said. Carefully, he eased his arms around Greg, and he was still warm from sleep, so Greg burrowed in, drawing the warmth and touch and intimacy around him like another layer of comfort. He found himself pressed against Mycroft’s chest, the tickle of chest hair on his nose well worth it.

“Mmmm, you’re warm,” Greg sighed, feeling the heat slowly seep into his skin. Mycroft was slowly stroking the back of his neck with the tips of his fingers, and it felt wonderful. Neither moved for a while. When Greg felt warmer, he shifted, moving back just enough so he could see Mycroft.

“Thanks,” he said with a smile.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, his voice barely a murmur.

“I have no idea what time it is,” Greg said. “Early?”

“Early,” Mycroft confirmed. His fingers were still resting on Greg’s neck and it somehow made everything feel even more intimate.

“But you don’t have to be back at work until this afternoon,” Greg checked.

“Correct.”

“So you can stay here with me for a while.” Greg knew he sounded hopeful, which was entirely accurate.

“I can,” Mycroft replied with a small smile.

“Good,” Greg said, moving closer again.

This time, instead of ducking his head into Mycroft’s embrace he kissed him. It was the kind of lazy morning kiss that didn’t necessarily lead anywhere. Greg loved this kind of time spent together, and he was thrilled Mycroft didn’t have to rush out of bed today. He suspected there wouldn’t be a lot of mornings like this, if they managed to keep things going until he was back in London. That would make it special, he decided as Mycroft kissed him back and they melted into each other. Something to look forward to during a long frustrating week.

They shifted a little as they kissed, their legs twining together until their bodies were pressed along their length. The gentle warmth Greg had felt earlier was building into something more now that they were so close. The duvet was covering them from toes to shoulders, and he could feel Mycroft’s fingers running up and down his back. Tiny lines of flame followed the contact and he shivered. He’d missed this. Letting something slowly build but without the pressure of it having to necessarily turn into sex. He could feel the ridge of Mycroft’s erection nudging his own, but the urgency wasn’t there.

It felt like Gander again. Having someone want to spend time with him without wanting something in return. Before Mycroft, Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this. Certainly not with Claudine. That had been far more about sex than intimacy.

_Stop thinking about that and enjoy this._

Greg pulled his mind back to the present. Mycroft smelled good, and Greg was pretty sure he’d cleaned his teeth before venturing out. He didn’t seem to mind that Greg hadn’t, which was a relief. The rest of the world receded further with each passing moment until it was just the two of them and the bed in existence. Mycroft seemed equally content to spend the morning wrapped up in Greg. He wasn’t pushing their contact for anything more, though Greg was certain he must be able to feel how their bodies were responding the same.

Greg hummed his appreciation as Mycroft drifted his mouth sideways, rolling him slightly onto his back. He kept his eyes closed, concentrating on the feel of Mycroft’s mouth on his skin. It was still new enough to be exciting as Mycroft explored, but as far as Greg could tell he wasn’t deliberately trying to figure out what turned Greg on. It was just getting to know him. Lying still, hands pressing into Mycroft’s back, it took Greg a few seconds to recognise what he felt.

_Valuable. Interesting._

Words he hadn’t applied to himself in a long time. Not on this intimate level. He knew he had some good stories, and professionally he had a lot of experience to offer –that was why he was over Dallas, anyway – but this was different. That was about what he could offer to other people. Entertainment. Information. Skills.

This was someone wanting to know how his beard grew in, with a little patch of pure white just on the edge of his jaw. The shape of his cheekbone. How his skin tasted.

_Jesus._

He could almost feel himself drifting off to sleep again, Mycroft was moving so slowly; it was calming on a deep level. He felt safe here.

“Gregory?”

Greg hummed, not sure he could make words work right at this moment. When Mycroft didn’t speak again, he opened his eyes, blinking as they figured out how to focus on someone so close. Mycroft’s expression was serious. It juxtaposed with the redness of his kiss-swollen mouth.

“Would you have returned to London if Adrienne had not been so persuasive?”

The question took Greg by surprise. Had Mycroft been thinking about that right now? “What?” he said, needing a few more seconds to really process the question.

Mycroft eased back, but Greg followed. If Mycroft was going to ask that question, he certainly wasn’t going to let him get too far away. They ended up almost where they had started, lying sideways on the same pillow, bodies close but not really touching. Mycroft looked like he regretted asking the question just a little, but his eyes still met Greg’s.

This was one of those questions Greg dreaded. Was this what Mycroft had been wanting to ask last night? Had he been thinking about it all night?

“Well, I do live here,” Greg said. “In London. So yes, I would have come back.”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg felt his heart race as the answer he needed to give came to him. There was no way to work around it, unless Mycroft accepted the answer they both knew didn’t really address the meaning of his question.

“That’s not entirely what I meant,” Mycroft said.

“I know,” Greg replied. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look into Mycroft’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I thought…when you told me we weren’t suited on the plane, I,” he frowned as he searched for the right explanation. “I didn’t believe you, but I believed that you believed it. And you pointed out the problems we would have to figure out. And they sounded big when you said it.” He tried for a smile but he was pretty sure it failed. “Adrienne made them sound smaller.”

Mycroft nodded. “I was working to persuade myself,” he admitted.

Greg nodded too. “I wasn’t even going to tell them about you,” he said. “I didn’t know…there didn’t seem to be much point. If you didn’t want to see me you’d be powerful enough to make sure I couldn’t get to you.”

“What happened?” Mycroft asked.

“I couldn’t,” Greg whispered. “I couldn’t pretend you didn’t exist. And Addie can be pretty persuasive, and I wanted her to be right. The next thing I knew I was on a plane, and I might as well try to find you, and I thought of Sherlock. Seemed like he might be easier to find than you.”

“Distinctive names run in my family,” Mycroft murmured.

“Thank God,” Greg replied. He took a deep breath. “I just had to know. If it was you or,” another deep breath, “fear talking.”

“Fear?” Mycroft asked.

“That was Addie’s theory. And it kind of made sense. Everything was so different in Gander, it might have been too much to think it could work in the real world, and on the plane you’d listed the logistical problems, but you didn’t talk about how you felt. And you didn’t really tell me you didn’t want to see me.”

“You’re right,” Mycroft said. His hand was shaking as he raised it to Greg’s face. “But what you said in Sherlock’s flat…” His own attempt at a smile was as wobbly as Greg’s had felt.

“It was true,” Greg said. He had no idea which bit Mycroft meant but it had all been true.

“You don’t know which part I am referring to,” Mycroft pointed out.

“It was all true,” Greg said, almost smiling at the moment. “Flirting with you on the plane and in Gander was a bit of fun, I didn’t really think you’d be interested. But you were, and it was amazing, until we got back to the airport, and on the plane…you went back to who you were before. And I thought we were done.”

“I’m not the same,” Mycroft said, and Greg knew what he was going to add before he said it. “I changed and everything else is different.”

“I think I’ve heard that somewhere before,” Greg said.

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted. “It doesn’t make it less true, though.” He was very still as he thought.

“You could ask me if I regret coming back,” Greg suggested.

“Do you?” Mycroft asked.

“Not for a second,” Greg whispered. They stared at each other across the space for two breaths before Mycroft surged forward, his weight pressing Greg into the mattress as he kissed him desperately hard.

So much for a lazy morning in, Greg thought, his body exploding with sensation all at once.

They’d gone from soft and unhurried to blisteringly hot, and Greg could feel his heart racing. Mycroft’s hands were everywhere, and Greg was turning into him, the pressure not quite enough, seeking more contact, more friction. Greg could hear Mycroft breathing fast, almost whimpering on every breath, and he felt the same, trying to kiss more deeply, to press more closely. The duvet got kicked off at some point; it was too much, with the sudden heat radiating from their bodies. The cold air was a shock but he didn’t care.

This time when Mycroft’s mouth dragged across his jaw, Greg gasped. Before he could really react properly Mycroft was pressing his lips to Greg’s ear, breathing hard and heavy. Greg’s head fell to the other side, the groan rent from his throat easing the smallest amount of his rapidly building restlessness. His hands roamed up and down Mycroft’s back without pause until they caught under the bottom of his pyjama top and he found his palms pressed against bare skin, hot and moist at the small of Mycroft’s back.

“Oh,” Mycroft gasped.

Perhaps he had been waiting for Greg to do this first, but Mycroft immediately did the same, scrambling to lift the t-shirt Greg had worn to bed, tugging it over his head and dropping it somewhere. Greg had no idea where but it didn’t matter; Mycroft’s hands shook as they returned to his chest and nothing else mattered. It was as though they hadn’t done this already, the thrill as fresh as the first time they’d touched. Greg groaned again, pulling at Mycroft’s shirt, impatient now the warmth had exploded into this inferno. Somehow it was gone and they were together again, skin skidding past as they both reached out, still trying to kiss, to angle for just that little bit closer.

It made everything slide together, and in this different atmosphere, the same movement was incendiary. Greg gasped, his hands moving down to grip Mycroft’s arse as he pushed his hips up. He had to chase it, the sensation of his cock sliding past Mycroft’s, even through layers of clothing.

“Gregory,” Mycroft groaned, his face dropping into Greg’s neck, panting hot against his skin.

The second thrust was met by Mycroft and suddenly they were moving together, Mycroft trying to wedge his hands between Greg’s arse and the mattress. Greg tried to roll, to make space for him without wrecking the rhythm, but it wasn’t right yet anyway. Mycroft’s fingers gripped hard and he rolled back, realising what Greg was doing, trying to work with him.

It wasn’t enough.

Greg shifted his hands, sliding them inside Mycroft’s pants, feeling the flex of his muscles again. It must have been some kind of brilliant idea because Mycroft followed suit, and within seconds they had both abandoned their rhythm for the scrambling kicking of people trying to undress very quickly without stopping what they were doing. It might have been funny at another time, but Greg couldn’t stop to share the joke. He and Mycroft crashed back together, and there wasn’t anything even close to a rhythm as they kissed and grabbed at each other, frantic.

Greg didn’t know how long it went on, but he finally pulled himself together enough to realise this wasn’t going to get them where they both wanted to go.

“Wait,” he said, gasping the word as Mycroft’s tongue swirled around his nipple. “Mycroft…lube?”

He could feel Mycroft shaking, using his self-control to stop and listen to Greg. A hand stretched out, tugging at the bedside table until it opened. Greg could hear the clatter of whatever was inside. He was taking the chance to breathe deeply, his body tingling as he tried to catch up. Finally, Mycroft returned, a bottle in his hand.

Greg looked at it, then at Mycroft’s wide eyes. He held Mycroft’s gaze as he took the bottle and leaned up to kiss him slowly. Breathing together. Taking a second to switch from frantic to deliberate.

“Give me your hand,” Greg said.

He had to look down, squirting the liquid into both of their hands before tossing the bottle and returning to kiss Mycroft again. He waited until he felt Mycroft relax into it before he reached his hand down, groaning with relief when his fingers wrapped around Mycroft’s cock.

It was different now.

Quiet, lying beside each other, hands spreading gel across skin, kissing and gasping at the sensations. Greg could feel his body singing with tension, but the desperation of earlier was gone and this was far more intimate. He was more attuned to Mycroft now rather than chasing his own pleasure. He could feel Mycroft’s breath across his face, the tightness of his grip and the way he responded to Greg’s strokes. They’d started this together and Greg was hoping they could get to the end together as well.

They’d both started slowly, taking a few moments to adjust to the new dynamic, but as they’d settled in, the rhythm gradually sped up. Greg hadn’t touched another cock in a long time, but it didn’t seem to matter, and from the feel of Mycroft’s hand on his own body, finesse was hardly necessary at the moment. Their breathing quickened, and Greg found his hand moving faster, their kisses devolving into panting, open mouthed groans into the same air as their bodies tightened and tightened. Greg could feel he was close; his muscles were clenching, the spiral in his belly drawing him closer, and as he reached the point of no return, he forced himself to open his eyes and look at Mycroft.

He only saw a snapshot before the orgasm hit, but it was glorious. Mouth open, speechless; skin flushed and damp, his hair curling over his ear…

And Greg felt it burst within him, his hips stuttering, head dropping as he gasped. His hand was still moving over Mycroft, willing him to peak too, to share in the exquisite agony pulsing through him. As the last waves crested and faded Mycroft’s body bucked and Greg felt a breathless smile come over his face as he tried to catch his breath.

_Together._

The minutes after sloughed together, a mess of harsh breathing, of heavy limbs and heat in every cell. Greg forced his eyes open, wanting to see Mycroft. They were lying on the pillows again, though further apart than they had been. Mycroft was curled into himself, eyes closed, one hand reaching towards Greg. He placed his own hand in Mycroft’s, feeling the fingers curl into his though Mycroft’s eyes remained closed.

_No regrets._

_Not for a second._


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and thanks as always to Saratonin and also to ShesQuackers for the Newfoundland information - so valuable!  
Stay safe everyone. <3

_Hello, please follow this link to download a secure application. – M_

Done. – G

+++

Hi! I’m the first one to send a message on this! I’m assuming this is a private platform just for us? :)

_Correct. One of the stipulations of our arrangement is that our communications need to be secure._

_Videos are considered too great a risk._

_I hope that is acceptable._

Of course! This is easy as any other way of keeping in touch. :)

What are you doing today? Tell me something I’m allowed to know about.

_I ran this morning before work. It was still dark when I left home._

Wow, that’s early. Breakfast meeting?

_An early engagement, yes. My personal assistant, Anthea, needed to brief me first._

Hope it went well.

_As well as can be expected. We shan’t go to war this week._

Good to hear. ;)

Is that common? The possibility of war?

_While there was a level of facetiousness to my comment, it’s not uncommon for negotiations to be critical to the peace of a given region of the world. _

_I am sorry I can’t explain further._

No problem, I think ignorance is bliss in this case!

_I believe so._

_How have you settled back into Dallas?_

Okay. It’s amazing how fast you get back into the rhythm, you know?

_I do. Though some things have changed significantly._

Yes, they have. J

+++

_How are Adrienne and Alexandra?_

Well. Addie’s still finding it hard to get around. I’m trying to make sure I take her out every couple of days, even just to do groceries or something, she’s getting bored and impatient to get around on her own. The physio is happy with what she’s doing though, so that’s good.

Lexi’s adorable, of course.

_Of course._

_I have hesitated to offer this in case you read it the wrong way, but if there is anything that would benefit either Adrienne or Alexandra for which I might a make financial contribution, please do not hesitate to let me know. My family is quite comfortable and I would be very happy to provide anything that could smooth this process for you all._

Wow, Mycroft, that’s really generous. We’re okay at the moment, though. Delilah’s running everything like a drill sergeant and it’s all fine. I think I’ll be more worried when I come back to London, but I don’t think there’s anything you can do about that.

_I am able listen to your concerns. They are valid, given how hands on you have been so far in this process, and some anxiety about how things will progress in your absence is natural._

Thanks. It sounds silly to say it out loud.

_Rest assured it does not sound silly to me. I appreciate you sharing your life with me in such a manner._

Thanks J I better go, promised Delilah I’d get in some groceries before work.

_I hope your day goes well._

+++

Good news today. The guy I testified against in London’s been put away for life.

_Excellent news._

Bit of a surprise, that judge isn’t always so harsh but he deserved every minute of it. His lawyers dragged it out for years. Glad it’s over.

_As am I. _

At least I got this when I arrived home.

**Attachment: smile.jpg**

_Ah. Alexandra is coming along nicely, I see._

First smile! It’s a bit wonky so far but she’s working hard on it.

_A milestone moment._

_I’m pleased you were able to experience it firsthand._

+++

Apparently I’m to be known as ‘Uncle Greg’.

_Uncle?_

Addie suggested some variation of ‘Grandpa’ but I am NOT old enough for that.

No hair jokes please.

_Not at all. Your silver hair makes you look distinguished, not old._

Thanks. Anyway, I’ll probably never be a real uncle, so Uncle is good.

_You have no nieces or nephews?_

No. My sister and I don’t really get on, and she’s older than I am, so I doubt there’ll be any kids in the future.

That reminds me, how’s your brother?

_You would not believe it if I told you._

He’s not using his manners, is he? ;)

You’re right, I wouldn’t believe it.

_No, he remains as abrasive as ever._

_He did, however, indicate that he will be attending family Christmas this year._

Is that unusual?

_To say the least. And to further add to the surreality, he will be bringing a guest._

A guest? Not the landlady? ;)

_No. He has made a friend, apparently._

A friend?

_Indeed. Sherlock made contact with a doctor at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in the course of one of his investigations. Doctor Stamford had a fellow former student present, and my brother, for some ineffable reason of his own, took a liking to this man. He has since moved into the spare bedroom and is assisting him with his business._

Wait, Sherlock hired him?

_I believe it is more of an ad hoc arrangement. Sherlock was frustratingly vague on the details. Doctor Watson passed the background checks I ordered, of course, but for some odd reason he appears to like my brother._

Wonders will never cease.

_Indeed._

+++

And is he okay? Your brother, I mean? No more incidents you need to deal with?

_If you’re referring to his drug use, to my knowledge he has been clean for weeks now. From what I can gather, Doctor Watson simply asked him not to._

What?

_Doctor Watson asked Sherlock not to use._

And that’s all it took?

_From what I can see, yes. I wish I could say it made him more pleasant, but it does not._

One thing at a time. Sounds like this Doc might be good to have around!

_Indeed. I have ensured his employment, despite the shifts he continues to miss on account of his traipsing around the city after my brother._

Well, that’s great. Isn’t it?

_It is. _

But?

_I beg your pardon?_

There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, Mycroft. I can tell, even from here.

_I find myself concerned about what might happen should Doctor Watson grow tired of my brother._

You can’t do anything about that, Mycroft. It sounds like whatever it is that makes Sherlock like Doc Watson and vice versa, you’ve just gotta let it run its course.

I’m interested to meet this guy, he sounds a lot like someone I used to know.

What’s his first name?

_Thank you. In the past my efforts to ensure people remain have backfired. It is difficult to stand by and do nothing._

_His name is John._

John Watson? You’re kidding. I reckon I know him! What a coincidence!

He’s a good bloke.

You’ve gotta let people make their mistakes. Up to a point. You’re a good big brother, Mycroft. Sherlock wouldn’t even be here to have met John if it wasn’t for you.

_Thank you._

_There are no coincidences, in my experience._

_I am having my piano tuned next week._

Oh, excellent.

You’ll have to explain the coincidence thing to me one day.

+++

_What are your plans Monday of next week?_

Nothing, why?

_Work brings me to Dallas, if you’re free._

Seriously? Of course I am! Tell me what’s happening and I’ll fit in.

+++

_I am hoping to have several hours in the evening. You are welcome to meet me at my hotel if you’d prefer. I must confess I am curious to meet Adrienne, Alexandra and perhaps Delilah if it wouldn’t be an imposition on their time._

If they know you’ll be in town even your security people won’t be able to keep them away, so I don’t think there’s much point in saying no. I’d love you to meet them, too. Send me the details. You’re welcome to our place if that works security wise. It’s still easier for Addie. You can send people before or whatever you need to do.

_Thank you. I will make the arrangements and let you know._

_Assuming you’re still amenable to me coming, there will be some inconvenience to you._

Bring it on. :)

+++  
_The best option from a security perspective would be for me to come to your residence._

Sure.

_It would require a team to do a sweep of the house, surveillance outside and potentially some individuals providing security on your property._

Not a problem, Mycroft.

_Are you certain?_

Yes. Absolutely. _Certainement_.

I would love to see you. Please don’t think it’s too much.

_Very well. Anthea will be in touch with the details._

If you hear a loud noise soon, it’s Addie squealing when I tell her you’re going to be coming for a visit.

_Noted._

_T_ _hank you._

+++

I can’t believe you’re coming! Everyone’s excited.

_I am looking forward to seeing you in person._

I’m looking forward to a hug.

_That would be nice._

Nice? Hopefully more exciting than that. ;)

Yeah, I know what you mean.

+++

_I apologise, I will be quite busy in the next few days. I may not be particularly available as I prepare for my trip._

Of course. I’ll just leave you bits of news and stuff here, and you can read it when you get some time.

_Thank you for your understanding._

+++

Four days to go!

+++

Lexi’s smiling up a storm now, I bet she’ll smile at you when you get here. Addie’s doing better too.

+++

I’m craving that Indian place again today, we’ll have to order from there when I’m back in London.

_Will you miss the Tex-Mex cuisine?_

Not if I have that Indian ;)

+++

Shit day at work. Some people just can’t concentrate and somehow it’s my fault? I can’t wait to get back to my proper job. My boss still wants me to stay but I was never going to live over here forever.

_+++_

_I’m sorry to hear your day was not enjoyable._

How was yours?

_Long. I empathise with your plight – many of my colleagues do not chose to engage their brains, and the consequences can be time consuming to repair._

Heck yes.

+++

Only two days until you’re here!

_It is._

I’ve missed you. x

_As I have you. x_

+++

I’m working up an excellent hug for you. x

_I look forward to receiving it._

_I apologise for any apparent lack of enthusiasm. _

_I find this medium difficult in which to be demonstrative. x_

So do I. Can’t wait to see you in person. xx

+++

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow…

+++

Delilah tells me you must be a catch and a half. Apparently I’ve been humming that song ‘Tomorrow’ from Annie all day. I don’t think she’s lying, exactly, but I didn’t even know I knew it.

_+++_

_I am heading to the airport. I will be out of contact while my flight is in the air and while I am in meetings in Dallas._

_I will see you soon. x_

See you soon! x


	27. Chapter 27

Greg fixed his collar, aware it was actually fine but needing something to do with his hands. Mycroft said 4pm; it was 3.55 so a chorus of _any second any second _had been playing in his head for the last hour. It was far more insistent since the security team had come to sweep the house, professional and unapologetic as they ensured it was clear of potential threats. Six entered and only two left, a fact Greg noted but kept to himself. Telling Delilah and Adrienne about the security personnel hiding somewhere upstairs wouldn’t help them relax, and he didn’t even want to _know_ what kind of electronic equipment they might have added to his décor.

It didn’t really make a difference to Greg; nothing would help him relax at this point. He and Mycroft had been chatting online every day, but he still had the last minute frantic thoughts about _what if he’s changed his mind_ and _what if he doesn’t like me anymore_ and _what if I remember him wrong?_ He was pacing on the front porch when Delilah came out, looking calm and steady as always. She really would take good care of Addie and Lexi, Greg thought as she gave him a calm smile.

“He’ll be here when he’s here, Bubba,” she told him. “Worrying won’t speed his journey.”

“I know,” Greg said, “but I’ll keep doing it anyway, if you don’t mind.”

Her laughter was rich and genuine as always, and she folded Greg into her arms without asking. “Of course not, if it makes you feel better,” she said. “Does he know how much you like him, Greg?”

Greg shrugged, fixing his blazer as she let him go. “I hope so.”

She smiled. “He should. You should make sure he knows.”

“He knows, Mama,” Greg said, grinning self-consciously.

“I’m just saying, it can’t hurt to be clear,” she replied. “Now might be a good moment.”

She nodded to the street, where a nondescript car was pulling up. It was nice, but not as nice as the one in London; that would have stood out like a sore thumb in this working class neighbourhood. Greg’s heart started pounding.

“I’ll wait inside until you two’ve said hello,” she said. “Come into the front room if you want. We’ll out in the kitchen.” She patted his arm, but Greg’s eyes were locked on the rear door of the car as it opened and Mycroft stepped out. He looked up at the house, his eyes finding Greg immediately.

Greg’s heart contracted, and he smiled tentatively. He looked exactly as Greg remembered. Great suit, perfect posture, tie and waistcoat under his coat.

Mycroft returned his smile and walked briskly across the path and up the steps. “Good afternoon,” he said.

“Hi,” Greg replied. They stood across the porch from each other, neither crossing the distance. Greg had no idea what the rules were, given that they were more or less in public. He clenched his fists, feeling his damp palms against his fingertips.

“Um, do you want to come in?”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied, and he preceded Greg into the house.

“Just on the left,” Greg said, closing the front door. Delilah had pulled the lace curtains, and Greg knew from experience that they would be invisible from the street. “Can’t see inside through the curtains,” he said, stopping behind Mycroft. He waited until Mycroft turned to face him. “Hello,” he said again.

“It’s good to see you,” Mycroft replied, and to Greg’s immense relief, he stepped closer, arms opening wide.

Greg met him halfway, pulling him into a hug. He could feel Mycroft’s arms tight around his back, and a huge amount of the strain he’d felt dropped away.

_He’s missed me._

Greg pulled back a little, pressing his palm to Mycroft’s jaw, reminding himself of the exact shape of its curve. It was familiar, thrilling up his arm as he pressed his mouth to Mycroft’s, the sparks bursting through his belly as Mycroft kissed him back. The last of his doubts melted as they reacquainted themselves with each other, moments rolling by until finally, they eased apart from each other.

“Hello,” Greg said, knowing his smile would look foolish but not caring. He could feel his lips swelling a little and wondered if the scruff burn he could see on Mycroft’s face was an optical illusion.

_Should have shaved._

“You shaved,” Greg said. “Sorry, that’s a ridiculous thing to say.”

Mycroft smiled. “It’s true,” he said. “Did I miss anywhere?”

Greg made a show of examining his face carefully, fingers trailing over skin for as long as he could justify it. Mycroft’s eyes drifted closed and Greg found himself smiling. He could probably do this all day, noticing freckles he hadn’t before. The scar was still there, and he remembered its shape as his fingers traced the curve.

“No,” he said finally. “Looks good to me.”

Mycroft smiled again. Greg was quite astonished at how easily he appeared to have relaxed.

“I thought you’d be more nervous,” Greg said without thinking.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t seem nervous,” Greg said.

“Why would I be nervous?” Mycroft asked. “You’re here. As for meeting your family, well I have many years of training in international relations. My skills will be valuable on this first occasion.”

Greg smiled. “They will,” he said. “We probably should go in, though. They’re pretty eager to meet you.”

Mycroft nodded. “Certainly.”

Greg smiled again. Despite his confident assertion he could see Mycroft drawing a deep breath. “It’s not meant to be torture,” he said. Before Mycroft could speak he added, “I don’t even want to know if you have experience with that. Not right now.”

Mycroft nodded. Greg couldn’t think of anything else to say that would be reassuring, so he just took Mycroft’s hand instead.

“Shall we?” Mycroft asked.

Greg squeezed his fingers, and they walked towards the back of the house together.

+++

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Greg asked, hours later. They were sitting on the back porch, the light long faded from the sky. It was cool, but they sat close on the loveseat, hands tangled together on Mycroft’s knee. Addie had gone in to feed Lexi; she’d tugged Mycroft down to hug him before Delilah helped her inside, leaving Greg and Mycroft alone for a few more moments. Mycroft’s car would arrive soon, and their conversation had dwindled into nothingness until Greg had just broken it.

“Not at all,” Mycroft said. “They are very much as I expected.”

“Loud, lacking personal boundaries, pushy?” Greg asked.

“Invested in your happiness, opinionated, joyful,” Mycroft counted.

“How tactful of you,” Greg replied.

“They’re lovely,” Mycroft said quietly. “Thank you for allowing me to meet them.”

“I told you, there was no allowing involved,” Greg said. “They’d have come over to London unannounced if we hadn’t managed this before I left.”

Mycroft nodded, not furthering the faux argument. “Are you still intending to return in the first week of January?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I’m due back at Scotland Yard on the fifteenth,” he said.

“I was considering taking a period of leave,” Mycroft said.

The carefully studied casual tone didn’t fool Greg. He knew Mycroft didn’t idly consider anything; he certainly wouldn’t have mentioned it unless he was quite certain he was prepared to do it.

“You are?” Greg asked cautiously.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I have considerable leave accrued, and I will need to be in touch with the office daily, but I thought perhaps we might spend some time determining…” he trailed off, watching Greg’s expression intently. “Is something amusing?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, cuddling closer. “You’re gonna take leave to help me settle in, right?”

Mycroft considered the words carefully. “Yes,” he said finally. “If you would prefer to express it as such.”

Greg was still grinning. “I would,” he said. “That’d be great, if you can.” He pressed a kiss to the burst of freckles in front of Mycroft’s left ear – it was fast becoming a favourite of his. “I’ll have to find somewhere to live. Not looking forward to that. My old flat was pretty average, but it was cheap and close to work.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, and Greg wondered if he was trying to be tactful about Greg’s chances of finding something both cheap and close to work. The silence stretched for another minute or so until Mycroft said,

“You would be welcome to stay with me.”

Greg blinked. “What?”

“I have sufficient space. And my flat is not too far from Scotland Yard.” He glanced at Greg. “Of course, I don’t expect you to say yes, but please consider the offer-”

“Yes,” Greg said immediately. “That would be great. I mean, just in the short term, while I look for something.”

“For as long as you need,” Mycroft said.

_Has he just asked me to move in with him?_

Greg wasn’t sure if Mycroft was unaware of his ambiguity or if he was deliberately leaving it unclear. Either way, it was two things off Greg’s mind. He wouldn’t need to find somewhere to live, and he’d be sure to see Mycroft regularly for the first couple of weeks, at least.

_He wants to spend time with me, too._

“Thanks,” he said. The door creaked behind them as it opened and Delilah came out.

“Addie is settled,” she said. “She’s asking for you, Greg.”

Greg nodded, standing with a wince as his joints protested. “Don’t go without saying goodbye,” he said to Mycroft.

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied.

Delilah and Addie were nothing if not devious, and Greg doubted very much that Addie actually wanted to see him. If she did, she’d have to wait while he eavesdropped on Delilah and Mycroft’s conversation. He wanted to be able to rescue Mycroft if necessary, so he stopped inside the kitchen door, tilting his ear to the conversation outside.

“Thank you for having me in your home,” Mycroft started.

“Anytime, honey,” Delilah replied. “So, you’re looking forward to Greg coming back to London?”

Greg heard the creak of the railing as Delilah leaned against the post. She would be crossing her arms, he thought with a smile, and giving Mycroft the kind of look for which he would not be prepared.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “We were just discussing his plans for finding a flat when he arrives.”

“I hope you told him he could bunk with you,” Delilah said. She would have raised her eyebrows, too. “Ain’t no point doin’ all that work to find somewhere when he’s gonna spend all his time at your place anyway.”

Greg would have bet money Mycroft’s eyebrows were also raised by now, and he’d be rapidly reassessing Delilah, if he hadn’t already clocked her earlier in the evening.

“Will he?” Mycroft asked, sounding calm. “We haven’t discussed plans at this stage.”

“Oh honey,” Delilah sighed. “God gave you eyes, least you can do is use them.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft said.

“That boy is head over heels for you, and there ain’t no way you’ve made all these arrangement to be here if you weren’t the same. Anybody can see it.”

There wasn’t a sound for a moment, and Greg found himself leaning forward, his breath caught in his throat as he waited for Mycroft’s reply. He was used to Delilah’s ability to see everything, but it would be new to Mycroft, and Greg wasn’t sure how he would react.

“I’m not sure you’re ‘anybody’, Miss Delilah,” Mycroft said, the dry words loud enough to make it to Greg. “But if you’re implying that I happily spent considerable time and effort to ensure I would be able to visit tonight…nothing would have been too much trouble.”

“Well then you’d better make sure he knows it,” Delilah said.

Greg heard the loveseat protest, and he assumed Mycroft had shifted his weight. “I believe he reads me almost as well as you do,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, but I’m not as invested as he is,” Delilah replied. “And Greg’s a good guy, but you didn’t see him after Claudine left. He had nothin’ left, honey, and it’s taken a long time to get back to here.” She chuckled. “I can’t even believe he was flirtin’ with you, if I’m honest.”

“Neither can I,” Mycroft admitted.

“Well, then for both your sakes, make sure he knows where you’re at.”

Greg heard the railing creak again, and he scurried away, heart in his mouth as it hadn’t been for years. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eavesdropped on someone.

Addie was asleep, as he’d predicted; he smiled at her before checking on Lexi – also asleep, arms flung wide as they always were when she could escape her swaddling – and leaving the door ajar on the way out. She sometimes needed to be able to call out in the night, and Greg wanted her to be able to get hold of him if she needed.

When he came back downstairs, Delilah was in the kitchen, patiently watching the kettle boil.

“Mycroft’s car’s waiting for him,” she said. “I’ll make iced tea while you’re saying goodbye.”

“Thanks,” Greg said. He didn’t mention the conversation he’d overhead. It wouldn’t surprise him if Delilah knew he’d been there. She would have done well as an interrogator, he mused, not for the first time. She didn’t have the temperament for it, of course, but her instincts about people were always spot on.

When he stepped out the back, Mycroft was waiting for him, standing by the same post Greg was pretty sure Delilah had been leaning against.

“Hi,” Greg said. “Your lift’s here?”

“It is,” Mycroft said. “The security personnel upstairs have left. I apologi-”

Greg didn’t let him finish. He cupped Mycroft’s face with both his hands, kissing the end of the word away. He waited there until Mycroft stopped protesting and started kissing him back. He’d intended to stop once Mycroft relaxed, but couldn’t help taking an extra second or two.

“Don’t apologise,” Greg said quietly, the words brushing Mycroft’s lips. “You have no idea what I would have put up with to see you here for a few hours.” It wasn’t quite what Delilah wanted him to say, but it was close. “A few people upstairs and a sweep of the house was nothing.”

“There were a number of electronic measures in place,” Mycroft added.

“It’s fine,” Greg said. “Happy to do it.”

“I’m still not entirely sure I understand why,” Mycroft said.

“Because as good as it is to know I can message you whenever I want, it’s not the same,” Greg said. “And I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but nothing beats a hug in person.” He ran his hands down Mycroft’s back. “And after today I might not get to see you again until next year.”

Mycroft nodded, sombre. “I feel the same,” he said. “It’s not a situation with which I am familiar.”

“It’s okay,” Greg said. “I bet it took a heap of work to make this happen. And I appreciate that. It tells me you really wanted it to happen too.”

“I did,” Mycroft said. “I’m pleased it wasn’t too much.” Greg felt a phone buzz against his chest. “I should go.”

“Of course,” Greg said. He pressed a last kiss to Mycroft’s mouth before releasing him. He made fists to stop himself reaching out again. “Travel safe. Let me know when you get in.”

“I will,” Mycroft said. “Thank you, Greg.”

Greg just smiled, not trusting himself to speak again. Mycroft walked back through the door, and presumably through the house; Greg remained on the back porch. The air was cool, but though he noticed it didn’t really matter to him. He needed to work through the evening. For all the lovely moments, there had been some significant conversations, too. Nothing alarming, but he wanted to make sure he was thinking along the right lines. Had he understood what Mycroft was saying?

“He’s gone,” Greg said, when Delilah came out. She passed him his iced tea without speaking, then turned to lean against the post as she always did. He turned to face the house, idly stirring his tea. He was used to the sweetness by now, but this late at night the burst of sugar would probably keep him awake.

“He is,” Delilah replied. The silence sat between them for a few moments as she sipped her tea. “Won’t be long until you’re back in London, though.”

“Ten weeks,” Greg said automatically. He drank from his glass, the jolt of cold and energy a shock even though he braced.

_Every time. Still._

“Assuming you don’t go over to see him,” Delilah said.

“What?” Greg said, distracted.

“Surely you can do it once, sugar,” she said. “It’s not that far.”

“It’s almost eight thousand kilometres!” Greg exclaimed.

“And I’ll bet Mycroft did not actually have to come all the way over her for whatever he told you he was here for,” Delilah said, looking at him pointedly. “It’s a very long way for one meeting.”

“That’s what he does,” Greg said. “Travels a long way for one meeting. And stuff.”

Delilah looked at him with disbelief visible even in the dim light. “If you say so, honey.”

Greg shrugged. “I can’t afford to just fly to London,” he said. “For what, a day?”

“Yes you can,” Delilah said. She put her glass down and turned to him. “Gregory Alexander, I am telling you this man is so far in love with you that he doesn’t even know which way is up. But he don’t see it yet.” Her expression softened. “I don’t think he even really believes all this is happening.”

Greg nodded.

_Sounds familiar._

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Delilah said slyly.

Greg snorted. The truth of it cut him, but he tried not to let it show. Delilah knew him better than anyone, and she didn’t say anything she didn’t mean. He was self-aware enough to know that sometimes he needed her to say what he was trying to ignore.

“I’m guessing you had a conversation with him when I went to see Addie,” Greg said casually.

“Of course I did,” Delilah said. “As if you weren’t standing on the other side of the door listening.”

Greg raised his eyebrows and glass, taking a sip without commenting either way.

“Well I’m sure you know, but he made it pretty clear he doesn’t know what he’s doing,” she said. “And since you don’t either, I’m going to keep telling you to make yourself clear to him. Now, what have you decided about when you get back to London?”

“I’m going to stay with him while I look for a flat,” Greg said.

“Excellent,” Delilah said with satisfaction. It was clear she thought that would be the end of it. As appealing as it was to think of himself and Mycroft sharing a flat, it was hardly the done thing to make that suggestion before they’d even lived in the same city.

Greg’s mind drifted to Addie. Lexi had been adorable tonight, of course, and he could see Addie’s confidence growing as she became used to mothering the little girl.

“Addie’s going to be just fine,” Delilah said with the unerring accuracy that could be so disconcerting. “You’ve done so much for her, Greg. Changed her life. Changed all our lives.”

Greg scoffed. “Turn it up,” he said.

Delilah’s expression was serious. “I’ve seen kids in her place,” she said, her eyes never leaving Greg’s face. “See how they end up. Pregnant in foster care, a rough ex ready to beat her into what he wants her to be?” She shook her head. “You saved her life, Greg. And Lexi’s.”

Greg shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “Thanks for the tea,” he said, knowing he sounded gruff. “I’ll think about London.” He dropped a kiss on her cheek as he passed. His glass went in the sink before he trailed upstairs to bed.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, sometimes a ridiculously long chapter is what we all need, right? So I won't be apologising for how long this chapter is. At all. Even if I did try to edit it a couple of times, only to end up with more words than I started with. <3

Mycroft was expecting him of course, but it didn’t stop Greg being nervous again. He’d timed his visit for the start of December. It meant there were only four weeks until he was due back for good, and the small number made him feel better about all the weeks they’d already spent apart.

The driver would meet him at the airport, a detail that made Greg grin. He’d travelled economy again – the previous ticket had cleaned out a bunch of his savings – but having Mycroft waiting for him at the end made it bearable. When Mycroft said he’d send a driver, Greg had forgotten he actually meant someone that doubled as security.

“David!” Greg exclaimed when he spotted the familiar figure. “How are you?”

“Good to see you, sir,” David replied with a grin. “Do you have any checked luggage?”

“Nope,” Greg said. “I’m only here a few hours.”

David raised one eyebrow but didn’t comment. They made their way through the crowds to the doors and Greg grinned again to see the car to which David headed – a very new, very shiny sedan, parked in a tow away zone.

“Government perk?” he said.

“Something like that,” David replied, opening the rear door.

“Actually, I’ll sit up the front if I can,” Greg said. “Might as well have a conversation. If it won’t get you in trouble.”

“Mr Holmes made a point of telling me it would be fine,” David said. “I think he anticipated you asking.”

Greg relaxed as they eased into the traffic. They talked easily enough, David smirking a little when Greg admitted he’d taken the advice David had given on the plane. It helped take Greg’s mind off coming to meet Mycroft, and the time passed quickly until the car pulled up at the kerb somewhere.

“Here you go,” David said, pointing to a doorway. “Just tell them who you are, who you’re here for, and they’ll take you up.”

“That’s it?” Greg said. A wave of nervousness washed over him.

“Show some ID, don’t make any jokes about guns or bombs,” David said. “Didn’t think I’d have to tell you that bit to be honest, sir.”

Greg rolled his eyes and offered his hand. “Good to see you.”

“Likewise,” David said.

Greg followed David’s instructions and soon he was following someone upstairs to what he assumed would be Mycroft’s office. The carpet was thick and the wood panelled walls exactly what he would have expected from a discreet, private club like this.

_Jesus._

The person escorting him knocked on a door, then opened it and announced him like he was famous or something.

“Thanks,” he murmured, and they withdrew.

He ducked his head inside, surprised to see a room more like a lounge than an office. Mycroft was standing by a fireplace, and he slipped his phone onto the mantle as Greg entered, taking care to close the door. The lights were low and the fire added to the atmosphere so there was no mistaking the air of romance.

_Jesus Christ. Did he do this on purpose?_

“Hi,” Greg said. He was moving across the room, but he still asked, “Exactly how private is this room?”

“Private enough,” Mycroft replied, drawing him in and kissing him without delay.

Greg groaned into it without thinking, pulling Mycroft close. The weeks apart had been so long and they hadn’t really had a lot of time together when Mycroft came for dinner in Dallas, and that was a lifetime ago. This would be different. It wasn’t entirely private, but apart from someone bringing in the dinner, it would be just the two of them, and they could talk freely, if nothing else. Greg might have some secret hopes for a bit of light petting, but he was keeping that to himself for now.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathed, kissing the pale skin that threatened to dip under Mycroft’s collar. It was warm and the familiar smell of cologne and _Mycroft_ sent sparks fizzing through his blood. His hands pressed hard enough to feel the shape of Mycroft’s back under the layers of fabric. What he wouldn’t give for the freedom to strip back some of those layers right now…

“Greg,” Mycroft breathed, the word hot against his ear.

He ignored it, more or less, concentrating on kissing every bit of skin he could reach. He ticked off what he thought of as landmarks – the freckles, the scar – before returning to Mycroft’s mouth again, cupping his face with both hands. Finally, his immediate need sated, and Mycroft’s, from the lack of resistance, Greg eased away. He kept his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders; after so long so far apart, he wanted to be as close as he could manage.

“How long can you stay?” Mycroft asked.

“My flight leaves at 7am,” Greg told him. “So whatever time I need to leave here to get to the airport.”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ll book you a car,” he said.

“Thanks for sending David,” Greg said with a grin. “It was good to see him.”

“Considering his…vested interest in our relationship,” Mycroft replied, “it seemed only reasonable I entrust him with your safety.”

Greg raised one eyebrow. “I have no idea what you mean,” he said. He couldn’t quite tell if Mycroft knew or just suspected David’s minor intervention on the plane, but he wasn’t about to drop David in it.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Mycroft replied dryly. “Well this room is ours as long as we need it.”

“You’re going to stay all night?” Greg asked.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “You have come all the way from Dallas for the pleasure of my company.”

“And what a pleasure it is,” Greg replied, slipping his hands down to cup Mycroft’s arse. He gave it a light squeeze, grinning at Mycroft’s surprised gasp. “Oh come on, that was a perfect opportunity for a little double talk.”

“This is hardly _1984_, Greg,” Mycroft said, but there was a smile playing around his mouth. He leaned forward to kiss Greg, and another few minutes were spent lost in each other.

“So is this your sitting room?” Greg asked, looking around.

“It is available to senior members of this club to be booked,” Mycroft replied. “Not mine exclusively.”

“You mean you have to share?” Greg said, grinning at him. “How pedestrian.”

“My suite of rooms is on another floor,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrow. “A reception room, a private office, sleeping quarters, and a private en-suite.”

“Bloody hell,” Greg breathed. He didn’t even get his own coffee machine at work. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied simply. He smiled and dropped a kiss on Greg’s still slack mouth. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Greg replied. “Plane food. I decided against it, since we were eating here.”

“A wise decision,” Mycroft told him. “Though I must tell you, I did not engage the kitchens this evening.”

“You didn’t?” Greg asked.

Mycroft had picked up a phone, speaking briefly into it before turning back.

“No,” Mycroft said. “Our meal will arrive shortly. Would you like a drink in the meantime?”

“Sure,” Greg said. The booze was probably as expensive as the rest of this place, he thought. Not that you can tell when it’s poured from a crystal decanter. “How can you tell which one is which?”

Mycroft glanced up from the drinks he was preparing. “Each decanter has a slightly different pattern,” he said. Greg stepped closer, examining the collection. The patterns were extremely similar. To Greg, only the colour of the liquids indicated they weren’t all the same.

“And you can remember which is which?” he asked, taking what appeared to be a gin and tonic. “Thanks.”

“I can,” Mycroft replied. “Though I tend towards the same two bottles.” He indicated the bottle he had just replaced – something clear – and another, bearing a deep amber liquid. “Gin for an aperitif and Brandy for a digestif.”

“No gunpowder rum?” Greg asked with a smile.

“Not on this tray, no,” Mycroft said. “A bottle does reside in my private collection, however.”

`“It does?” Greg asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He took a mouthful of his gin and tonic. “It bears happy memories.”

“Yeah,” Greg smiled, remembering the night with the piano and the rum. A fizz of happiness rolled up his spine. “I’m surprised there’s a communal drinks cart,” he said. “Don’t you worry about slow acting poisons between lowly Government officials?”

Mycroft gazed at him steadily, though a twitch of his eyebrow made it clear he understood the joke. “We all treat ourselves regularly with antidotes,” he said dryly. “And we have a gentleman’s agreement, of course.”

“No women?” Greg asked with a grin.

“At this level, no,” Mycroft said. “The club bore a regrettably backwards position regarding the admission of women over the last century.”

“No women at all?” Greg asked, surprised.

“On the contrary,” Mycroft replied, “though as seniority is generally connected to longevity, it takes correspondingly longer for their numbers to appear in these higher levels.”

“Right,” Greg said. “Same kind of thing happened in the police force.”

Mycroft nodded, and they fell silent. Before it could get too awkward, there was a discreet knock at the door. Mycroft walked over to open it, and three men in tuxedos entered bearing cloche-covered trays. A familiar smell wafted over as they passed him, and Greg felt his jaw drop even as his mouth started to water. He held his comment until the men had deposited the meal on the table, but as soon as they left he turned to Mycroft. The suppressed pleasure on his face sealed Greg’s suspicion.

_He didn’t…_

“You ordered from that Indian, didn’t you?” he said, delight flooding him. “You remembered.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “I hope it’s alright.”

“Alright?” Greg repeated. He was already halfway to Mycroft before he’d spoken, drink discarded on the table as he passed. “Thank you.” He flung his arms around Mycroft in what might be a slightly disproportionate response. The ability to hug Mycroft at will was a little surreal, and he wasn’t going to let an opportunity slide.

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft said, his voice slightly muffled. The surprise was clear, and Greg grinned to himself.

_He doesn’t understand why this is so special._

“That’s very thoughtful,” Greg told him, drawing back just enough to kiss him thoroughly.

Mycroft shrugged, his cheeks pink. “Shall we eat?” he said.

Greg grinned. “Just try and stop me. Glad I didn’t eat the sad excuse for a meal they provided on the plane.”

Mycroft had ordered the same as last time, Greg could see, plus a few extras. There was no way they could eat it all, but Greg did his best to try everything. It was as good as he remembered, with the extra bonus that Mycroft had remembered his throwaway comments about how good it had been. He could feel the affection in his gaze every time he looked at Mycroft. They talked about the mundane aspects of their lives as they ate – nothing important, the kind of nothings that drew an extra layer of intimacy around their comfortable relationship.

This was the kind of thing for which Greg had been yearning. The small interactions that never really happened with anyone but an intimate partner. Well, not _his_ intimate partners, not lately. But Mycroft was listening to him talk about the minutiae of his life, and sharing the details of his own.

It was wonderful.

When they’d finished, Greg groaned, rubbing his belly. “I hope you haven’t ordered dessert,” he said. “I should have asked before.”

“No,” Mycroft said, “though I did order an early breakfast to be delivered half an hour before your car departs in the morning.”

“Perfect,” Greg replied, stretching. “So we’re going to pull an all-nighter? Because I can definitely sleep on the plane.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “How could I sleep knowing you are here for so few hours?”

The apology hovered on Greg’s lips – _I’m sorry I still live so far away_ – but he swallowed it down. He knew Mycroft would be expected to work tomorrow. It was amazing he’d even managed this many hours away, and Greg half expected him to have to go and take a phone call or something at some point. But he hadn’t so far, and his gentle eyes were on Greg, interested and affectionate.

“Thank you,” Greg said instead, and reached over to take Mycroft’s hand. He hoped his meaning was clear – thanks for being here, and the meal, and the hours wrested from his no doubt busy schedule.

“Shall we adjourn to the sofa?” Mycroft asked.

“Sure,” Greg said.

_Whatever you want is fine with me._

A discreet button was pressed and two waiters appeared to clear their dishes. Mycroft was pouring glasses of water, and he joined Greg as the waiters closed the door behind them.

“You should drink plenty of water,” Mycroft said. “Air travel is dehydrating.”

“See?” Greg said, accepting the glass. “Thoughtful.”

“I hope I am,” Mycroft replied. “I’m not used to having another person to consider.”

“You’re doing great,” Greg told him.

They settled themselves together, Greg leaning back against Mycroft. He could lace their fingers together where Mycroft’s arm hung over his shoulder. Experimentally he turned to find it wasn’t impossible to kiss Mycroft from here.

“Only four weeks ‘til I’m back here for good,” Greg said. “Kind of weird to think I’ll be so far from Addie.”

“Are you concerned about how she’ll cope?” Mycroft asked.

“No,” Greg said. “Well, not much. Delilah has it under control, and everything’s going fine, medically. It’s just slow. I’m just protective, I guess.”

“A singularly attractive feature, let me assure you,” Mycroft told him.

Greg turned his head again so they could kiss, the crackle of the fire providing a quiet background to this perfect moment. His heart heaved as Mycroft’s fingers ghosted along his jaw, trailing low key sparks through his skin.

“I can tell you more good stuff if it’ll make you want to kiss me,” Greg said, happiness winding through him. “Did I tell you I always offer to help little old ladies across the road?”

“I’m sure you do,” Mycroft said, his voice low and warm against Greg’s mouth. They melted together again, and only the crick developing from the not entirely comfortable angle of his neck made Greg break it off.

“When I get back,” Greg said, “are you still planning on taking time off?”

“I have already informed my superiors of my intentions,” Mycroft replied.

“Informed them?” Greg asked. “You don’t have to apply for leave?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, and Greg wondered if he was tactfully avoiding areas in which Greg was not permitted to go. Not that it mattered really, but just when Greg thought he had a handle on exactly how powerful Mycroft was, there would be another layer of carefully guarded information. He waited, stroking Mycroft’s hand with his thumb.

“When I say, ‘superiors’,” Mycroft said carefully, “I use the term loosely.”

Greg nodded. He was practically holding his breath, wondering what Mycroft was going to say.

“Suffice it to say,” Mycroft said eventually, “I was not required to apply for leave. I made it clear I would be available, should the need arise, however the circumstances in which that would be necessary are…limited.”

“Imminent war?” Greg asked, only half joking.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied gravely.

Greg sat with that for a moment. “Alright,” he said. “Should we change the conversation, then?”

“I think that would be wise,” Mycroft murmured.

“Well, if you’ll be around in January,” Greg said, “you can help me look for a flat.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “I can have a list of suitable properties ready for the day you arrive, if you like.”

“Let’s make it the day after,” Greg said, snuggling into Mycroft a little. “I suspect I’m going to want to spend that first day in bed.”

“The jetlag will be significant,” Mycroft agreed. “Especially as you intend to acclimatise to the new time zone.”

“That is _not_ what I meant,” Greg told him. He looked over his shoulder, grinning. “You and I will both be spending the day in bed. Together.”

“Oh,” Mycroft murmured. He was flushing again, but the expression in his eyes was more aroused than anything else.

_Fuck, I love it when he does that._

Greg felt him shift, and then hands were turning him, and Mycroft was moving, and all of a sudden Greg had a lapful of minor Government official. He opened his mouth to say something – not a protest, of course – but Mycroft kissed him, hands curling into his lapels and Greg wasn’t foolish enough to turn him down. He reached out to wrap his arms around Mycroft, hoping to figure out how exactly he was balancing, and when his hands slid down Mycroft’s spine, he realised.

_Jesus, he’s straddling me._

Greg groaned, hands sliding down to cup Mycroft’s arse without another thought, pulling him closer. It was awkward, but weeks of separation made the effort worth it. Something about his desperation made it all the hotter, and Greg had the fleeting thought that if he came in his pants he had no clean clothes on this continent into which he could change.

“Mycroft,” he gasped, feeling his spine curl back when an erection pressed unapologetically hard against his own cock. “Jesus, Mycroft, wait…”

“What?” Mycroft panted, still kissing Greg.

Greg had to turn his head so he could answer, though the gasping breaths that were all he could manage made it a lot more difficult. “How…clean up?”

He felt Mycroft grow still, and regret bloomed for a second until Mycroft said, “I can think of one way.”

He looked at Greg, the pink flush deeper than their breathlessness would explain. Greg felt his eyes go wide as Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

_Is he suggesting…_

“Seriously?” Greg gasped.

_Has he ever…_

“No mess,” Mycroft replied, and there was a kind of nervous determination there.

_Jesus, he’s definitely offering…_

“Are you sure?” Greg asked.

His brain was warring with itself – one part wanting to be sure Mycroft was sure, the other screaming at him to let Mycroft do absolutely anything he wanted, for Christ’s sake.

He waited, breathing hard.

Mycroft nodded. Greg swallowed and nodded too, kissing Mycroft.

_Jesus._

He felt Mycroft’s hands unbuttoning his shirt, and even though he was expecting it, when lips started kissing down Greg’s chest, a flutter of nervous excitement blossomed in his belly. How long had it been since he’d gotten a blow job? And from a bloke? A bloody long time on both counts, he thought. Mycroft’s fingers were busy at his belt now, making short work of his button and zipper until it was only his pants covering his straining cock.

“Jesus,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft was kneeling on the floor now, long fingers stroking down his thighs, wide eyes looking up at Greg as he lowered his mouth to kiss Greg though the cotton of his pants.

“Jesus!” Greg exclaimed, biting back the loud groan.

Mycroft had barely started, but his touch was electric. Greg clenched his fists and closed his eyes, the sight of long fingers reaching to ease cotton over his cock too much to bear. Barely a few minutes of foreplay and the feel of Mycroft’s lips pressing to the tip of his cock was almost enough to send Greg over the edge. He could feel long fingers curling around his length, and when Mycroft opened his mouth to take Greg inside, he had to groan just to get through it.

As blow jobs went, it wasn’t fancy, and it wasn’t prolonged, but Greg knew it would rank right up there on list. Mycroft – probably the most powerful man in Britain, dressed in an impeccable suit – was kneeling on the floor of his private room in his private club, sucking on Greg’s cock as though it was his personal birthday present to be allowed to do so. Greg could feel himself spiralling upwards, and even though they’d more or less discussed it, his hands found their way into Mycroft’s hair and he was panting a warning in the seconds before a blinding orgasm hit him.

Mycroft must have heard, because he took Greg as deep as he could into his mouth, moving with his hips as they bucked through the first waves. Greg felt him swallow at least once; most of his body wasn’t quite his to command, but when he felt the adrenalin begin to wane, he smoothed Mycroft’s hair and gently pushed him away before he became too sensitive. His hands were still lying in the loose fists they’d fallen into, and Mycroft tucked him away, though his shirt was still unbuttoned when Mycroft returned to slump beside him on the sofa.

“Wow,” Greg said hoarsely. “Jesus, Mycroft…”

“I’m not sure of the correct response,” Mycroft murmured. “You’re welcome?”

Greg grinned, still breathing harder than normal. He didn’t say anything, just pulling Mycroft closer for a kiss. “I guess so,” he said. He smiled against Mycroft’s lips. “Maybe I can return the favour and you can figure out what to say after.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, the pink flush of earlier entirely eclipsed by the deep red that now filled his face.

Greg raised one eyebrow. “Really?” he asked. “Did you…”

“It is possible I found you more…stimulating than I anticipated,” Mycroft admitted. “You may not have noticed the absence of one of my hands as you reached your own climax.”

Greg stared at him, almost aroused again as he realised what Mycroft was saying. “You brought yourself off while you were doing that?”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg was startled to see shame in his eyes.

_Fuck…_

“Woah, just so we’re clear that’s an incredible turn on,” Greg said.

“What?” Mycroft asked, obviously disconcerted.

“It’s a turn on,” Greg said. “Seriously.” When Mycroft still looked doubtful, Greg said, “Please don’t tell me someone has been…critical of that.”

_Has anyone ever talked to him about this at all?_

“Perhaps,” Mycroft replied cautiously.

“Well they’re an idiot,” Greg said. “Because I’m telling you, it’s bloody amazing.”

Mycroft still didn’t look entirely convinced.

_He’s not used to anyone telling him he’s arousing._

“Okay,” Greg said, “when I get back here in January, we’ll switch places and you can see for yourself.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, and when he opened his mouth Greg hoped it was something positive. “I will need to change,” he said apologetically. “Might I leave you here for a moment?”

“Of course,” Greg replied. “Take your time.” He put one hand on Mycroft’s knee before he could go, making sure to look him in the eye before leaning forward to kiss him gently. The smile was a little uncertain, and Greg made a mental note to make good on his suggestion when he got back in January.

When Mycroft returned, Greg had more or less composed himself again. As far as he could tell, Mycroft had changed his entire suit. His expression was calmer, Greg was relieved to see.

“Did you have a shower?” Greg asked.

“I did,” Mycroft replied.

“Your hair is curling a bit,” Greg replied, smiling. When Mycroft came close enough he traced the errant curl, tucking it behind Mycroft’s ear. “I like it.”

Mycroft grimaced, but settled himself beside Greg. “It is not my favourite feature,” he admitted. “However I’m pleased you approve of it.”

Greg grinned. “Excellent,” he said.

Their conversation settled into the gentle murmuring nothings of two contented people. Watching the fire burn low, Mycroft’s hand in his, Greg felt happier than he had in a long time. He had a partner, and a future, and something to look forward to.

Lost in his happy thoughts, Greg didn’t notice himself drifting off.

+++

“Gregory.”

Mycroft’s voice was insistent, but Greg didn’t want to move. He was warm and comfortable, except from the crick in his neck. Why was that? And why was Mycroft here?

“Shit,” Greg muttered. He was in London. “Shit, I fell asleep, Mycroft I’m sorry…”

“You have some time,” Mycroft said.

Greg sat up, wincing as his neck protested. He turned to see Mycroft sitting behind him, somehow looking far more awake than he felt. “Did I fall asleep?”

“We both did,” Mycroft admitted, straightening his tie. “I am sorry, I know you wished to remain awake.”

“It’s hardly your fault,” Greg told him. “Dammit, how long do I have?”

“An hour,” Mycroft told him. “Anthea woke me, I had to sign off on some paperwork.” He looked at Greg. “She did bring our breakfast, however.”

He gestured to the side table, where a familiar box sat as though it had always been there.

_No way…_

“Timbits,” Greg breathed. He looked at Mycroft in astonishment. “You didn’t.”

“I did not travel personally, no,” Mycroft said, grinning as Greg moved reverentially over to the box, hardly believing it could be real. “I may have asked someone to make a minor diversion on their return from Ottawa, however.”

Greg was listening, but he couldn’t reply as his mouth was full of donut. When he swallowed, he looked at Mycroft.

“Thank you,” he said. “This, and the dinner,” he couldn’t really find the words. How could Mycroft not understand how amazing it was to have someone so considerate around? “It’s good,” he said lamely, hoping Mycroft understood the magnitude of his understatement.

“I’m glad you approve,” Mycroft said. “Are you considering sharing?”

“Of course,” Greg said, offering the box. “I wouldn’t for just anyone, you know.”

“Well I appreciate your generosity,” Mycroft said. He took one Timbit. “Am I to assume I am not just anybody?”

Greg stilled, another Timbit halfway to his mouth. The question was light, as the rest of their exchange, but there was an undercurrent of something more important. Carefully, he put the donut hole back and shifted over to sit close. Tempted though he was to make a flippant reply, this felt more important. He held Mycroft’s eyes, waiting until the mild surprise disappeared and he realised Greg was shifting the dynamic on purpose.

“You are not just anyone,” Greg said. “You are important. To me.” He swallowed, not wanting to make too big a deal, but remembering Delilah’s words.

_Unambiguous language…_

“I suspect,” he said, choosing his words, “that Delilah had a word to you when you came to visit in Dallas. She seems to think we can’t manage this on our own, and given what she’s said to me, I’d bet she’s said the same to you.”

Mycroft was looking at him with part fear and part fascination. He nodded slowly. “What did she say to you?” he asked.

“She thinks we’re head over heels for each other,” Greg said, his heart pounding hard, “but we’re both too unsure to say anything too real.”

Mycroft nodded cautiously.

“And she also said,” Greg added, “that she thinks I don’t believe someone like you could fall for someone like me.”

“She did?” Mycroft said.

“She thinks we’re the same, in that way,” Greg added. He breathed carefully. “I can’t speak for you,” he said, hoping Mycroft was ready for this declaration, because he wasn’t entirely sure he was, “but I…think she was right. About me. This, us, it’s really important to me. And I would never had thought…never have really thought you’d be interested. In me.”

The admission made him blush, cringe at the admission and how much it revealed of himself.

_We really need to time these conversations so we can finish them properly._

Mycroft nodded. “Me too,” he whispered.

_Thank God._

“And the rest,” Greg said, “if she was right about you, I want you to know I like you just the way you are. I don’t expect you to change, or whatever. I think you’re,” he swallowed, “pretty great.”

His heart was pounding in his chest as he watched Mycroft. His face was carefully blank, the expression Greg associated with his brain working. That was good, at least; he was thinking about something. As the seconds ticked by, Greg wondered if he’d overstepped the line. Was he presuming to know what was in Mycroft’s head? Should he have just kept his big mouth shut?

“Thank you,” Mycroft said eventually. He took Greg’s hand. “I don’t…I’m not sure exactly how to explain myself right at the moment, but please do not cause yourself additional anxiety believing your words were not welcome.”

“Okay,” Greg said. He had to translate that a bit, but he was fairly sure Mycroft was trying to reassure him. “Do you want another Timbit?”

Mycroft smiled. “I should take my share before they’re gone,” he said. “I remember the first box.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I’m not even going to pretend to apologise for that.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Mycroft replied with a smile as he selected a Timbit. “I know you are unrepentant.”

“As I recall,” Greg retorted, “you took the last Timbit under false pretences.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, swallowing before he spoke again. “Using my brain can hardly be considered false pretences.”

Greg was about to open his mouth when there was a discreet knock at the door. Mycroft answered it, speaking to someone before closing the door and turning back to Greg.

“Your car is here,” he said.

“Do they always knock and wait?” Greg asked. His heart sank as he realised their time was coming to an end.

_Four weeks feels like forever right now._

“They do,” Mycroft replied. “These private rooms are intended to be just that.”

“Good thing,” Greg said, thinking about how they’d spent part of the previous evening.

“Just so,” Mycroft replied with a smile. He opened his arms and Greg stepped in. Neither spoke as they hugged, holding each other tight.

Christ, every time we meet there’s some kind of bombshell conversation, Greg thought as they eased away.

“Next time I see you I won’t be flying back to the US,” Greg said.

“I look forward to it immensely,” Mycroft replied quietly. He cupped Greg’s face and placed the gentlest of kisses to his mouth. “Travel safe,” he murmured.

“I’ll call you when I get back,” Greg said. “Message you, I mean.”

Mycroft smiled, and Greg stood back, checking his passport was in his jacket pocket. It was weird travelling with no bags or anything, and he’d be exhausted when he returned, but it was worth it.

“See you soon,” Greg said, crossing to the door.

David was waiting on the other side. He smiled at Greg as he closed the door behind him. “Ready to go, sir?” he asked.

_No._

“Yeah,” Greg said.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. I can't believe it's two weeks since I updated this - the days seem so long yet they're slipping away.  
School begins tomorrow where I live, ten and a half weeks of 'remote learning'. I'm fortunate enough to be able to be home and facilitate (some) learning for the Smurfs (small Blue people that live here), but I don't know how much it's gonna take out of any of us, to be honest. We'll see how we go.  
As always, stay home, stay safe, stay kind. <3

Mycroft’s flat was more or less as Greg remembered it. Not that he had much of an opportunity to look around this time. The receptionist buzzed him up after he’d passed the eye scan and fingerprint test, but the second Greg arrived on Mycroft’s floor he was summarily tugged inside and the door closed behind him. Well, it was more accurate to say ‘he was pressed against the door, which slammed closed’, but his brain was hardly online at that point. Dark grey eyes had held his for a long as it took to cross the space between them, and the thrill had barely had time to skitter up Greg’s spine. As Mycroft kissed him, hands roaming restlessly under his jacket and making him drop his bag to the floor, Greg reflected that sending flirty text messages to Mycroft as soon as he landed in London was really an excellent idea. It certainly bypassed the potentially awkward greeting.

And then his rational brain gave in and Greg breathed in Mycroft for the first time in weeks, the heady knowledge that _I live here now_ driving everything even higher. The world condensed to the gasping breaths and tearing hands until they both pulled back to look at each other, eyes burning into eyes across inches. The air between them was drawn as tense as a bowstring, and Greg could feel his fingers trembling as they gripped Mycroft’s shirt.

“Bed?” he managed in between rough breaths.

“Bed,” Mycroft agreed, and they both stumbled in the right direction, reaching for each other as they moved down the hall. Tumbling onto the bed wasn’t as easy as it had been in his twenties, but it worked, and Greg pulled Mycroft on top of him immediately, wrapping both arms around him and pulling him close. Arms and chest and thighs, he thought dazedly, and we’re actually both here, and nobody has a flight to catch anytime soon.

_Jesus, is this even my life?_

“Missed you,” Greg gasped as Mycroft rolled a little, pulling his shirt up at the side.

They rolled together still kissing frantically until Greg finally worked himself on top, pressing Mycroft’s hands to the bed beside his head. He didn’t stop to look, though it was surely a magnificent sight. He wasn’t finished with the kissing quite yet. Mycroft’s skin was far too tempting to stay away from, and he knew there were unkissed inches under all those clothes, which simply would not do.

“Remember last time?” Greg said, pressing kisses against Mycroft jaw, his neck – anywhere he could reach. Christ, that tie needed to go. Who wore a tie while sitting at home on their own?

“Y-yes,” Mycroft gasped, straining gently against Greg’s hands.

Greg was reacquainting himself with his favourite freckles, so took a second to reply. “Remember what I told you after you sucked me off in that big, expensive private lounge?”

Mycroft nodded again, a breathless groan escaping as Greg shifted. Greg noted the spot he’d been attending – clearly somewhere worth revisiting – before moving further up to breathe his next words directly into Mycroft’s ear. He made sure to drag his cock up across a sharp hip bone before settling it along the matching hardness in Mycroft’s trousers.

“Well I thought we could start there,” Greg said. “We have plenty of time. Assuming you’ve taken some time off to help me settle in?”

“I have,” Mycroft said, his hips kicking forward, seeking Greg’s touch. “Nothing but...Christ…but the gravest emergencies today.”

Greg snorted. “I’d like to see the situation that’d drag you away from this,” he muttered. One hand snaked down, the heel of his hand pressing against Mycroft’s cock, sliding down its length. “Gonna be pretty difficult with all these clothes in the way.”

His words had their desired effect. Eyes widening even further, actual effort to escape Greg’s hands, immediate tugging at his own buttons with markedly poorer coordination.

_Brilliant._

They were both scrambling, pulling at buttons and tossing items as soon as they were free. There would be time for slow unveiling, for leisurely exploring. Now was not that time. Greg had managed to keep his hands off himself for a couple of days, and added to the heady reality of being here, with Mycroft, knowing he wouldn’t have to get back on a plane at any time in the near future…well, he was pretty sure he’d be able to make good on his promise to show Mycroft a different perspective on what had happened last time they’d seen each other.

With a grin, Greg slid down the bed, making sure one of Mycroft’s legs was between his own. Settling his cock against Mycroft’s calf, he didn’t stop to tease. From the way Mycroft had greeted him and all the clumsy desperation in between, Greg knew they were on the same page here.

“I,” Greg started, interspersing his words with wide, wet kisses along Mycroft’s cock, “can’t wait for you to come down my throat.”

“Je-” Mycroft started, but the blasphemy dissolved into a shout when Greg took him as deep as he could go. It was a long, long time since he’d done this properly, but from Mycroft’s reaction, flair wouldn’t be all that necessary. Not this time. Greg was hoping he’d have the chance to refine his techniques again, but this was not the moment for it. Mycroft’s hips were twitching, and the muscles Greg could feel in his thighs and abs were rock hard as he tried not to move.

_Have to see what we can do about that._

As he drew back, allowing his tongue to drag over the head of Mycroft’s cock, Greg could taste him. He let out the groan that rose, wanting Mycroft to know what effect he was having. Another burst against his tongue and Greg felt his own hips kick, knowing Mycroft was gripping desperately to his self-control.

“Jesus,” Greg gasped, as arousal sparked through his own body. He’d almost forgotten his own cock, pressed as it had been against Mycroft’s calf; the jolt of his hips dragged it along the muscle, rough and unexpected. There was no way Mycroft was gonna come without Greg matching him, not at this rate. Which was the whole point, of course, but the realisation was still something.

_Better get to it, then._

Without warning Greg lowered his head again, using everything he could remember to bring Mycroft off fast and hard. He was sucking, his tongue flicking at the frenulum when he could reach, feeling Mycroft’s body moving, the thud of his heart blending with Mycroft’s panting to fill his ears. None of it was particularly refined but every particle of his being revolved around Mycroft and as the cock in his mouth thickened, heralding the beginning of the end, Greg took Mycroft deep, closing his eyes. He felt fingers digging into his shoulders and imagined Mycroft’s head thrown back as he pulsed in Greg’s mouth. The expression was so clear in his mind and it send another powerful surge of desire through him. Greg didn’t know if his hand was on his cock before or after, but he was still swallowing when he came, the knowledge that Mycroft was filling him as he was emptying himself a potent insight.

_Jesus, that’s a thought for next time._

Coordinating his muscles was a challenge, but Greg managed to release Mycroft’s cock and clamber up the bed without knocking any sensitive body parts against each other.

“Christ,” Greg gasped, collapsing next to Mycroft. “If you’re planning on greeting me like that every day I might have to start taking better care of myself.”

“Perhaps not every day,” Mycroft allowed. His face was flushed and Greg was sure his imagination had been right. He resolved to make sure he could see Mycroft’s face next time. He wanted to watch. Hell, he wanted every bit of Mycroft he was allowed to have. Every single moment of intimacy felt even more special, knowing how private Mycroft was, and how few people had ever been granted the privilege.

_I can’t imagine not wanting this with you._

Mycroft’s breathing was slowing, and he dropped one arm over Greg’s back. “You must have anticipated the effect your messages would have on me, Greg. It would hardly have been a surprise.”

Greg managed to roll over, looking into Mycroft’s face. He looked wrecked, with a satisfied softness to his eyes that Greg loved.

_I put that look there._

“True,” Greg allowed, “though you were far more determined than I thought you’d be.” Before Mycroft’s expression could show more than a flicker of uncertainty, Greg heaved himself up and close, murmuring, “There are absolutely no complaints about that. None.”

Mycroft’s face relaxed. “The wait after you left the airport was interminable,” he replied when Greg eased back enough to rest his head on his arms.

“Agreed,” Greg replied.

“Did you have more luggage than the bag you were carrying?” Mycroft asked.

“David left it with reception,” Greg told him. “I said I’d be back down to collect it later.”

“Later?” Mycroft said. He glanced pointedly down the bed at Greg’s naked form. “A lot later, I trust.”

“Yep,” Greg replied with a grin. “No plans on getting dressed for at least a whole day.”

“I remember your plan,” Mycroft murmured. “I have done my part to ensure we would have enough sustenance.”

“You’ve filled the fridge,” Greg translated with a grin. “Excellent. I’m starving.”

“Airplane food?” Mycroft asked.

“Well, yes and no,” Greg said. “Did you really think I might not realise it was you that organised my upgrade?”

Mycroft flushed slightly. “It is a long way,” he murmured. “You must have needed more space.”

“Yeah, it was great,” Greg replied. “And the food was better than it would have been. Didn’t eat much though. Bit nervous, actually.”

“Nervous?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged, sliding his hand across pale skin. “Four weeks is a long time,” he said. “Never sure of how things might have changed.”

Mycroft read between the lines without a moment’s pause. “How I might have changed?”

“Or me,” Greg countered, “and maybe I’d be different. To what you remembered.”

Mycroft’s eyes searched his, and Greg fought to hold the gaze without pulling away. He wanted to show Mycroft whatever he wanted to see. The grey eyes were locked to his for a few moments before Mycroft spoke again.

“You are even more beautiful,” Mycroft said quietly, “and infinitely more attractive. If that is even possible, of course.”

Greg rolled his eyes, but he could feel the grin spreading across his face anyway. “Flatterer.”

“I speak only the truth,” Mycroft replied seriously.

Greg felt Mycroft’s arm ease around his back, long fingers stroking long and slow up and down his spine. “I would normally ask after your family,” Mycroft said, “but I’m not sure it’s appropriate given our current circumstances.”

Greg grinned, wriggling closer. “Let’s leave that ‘til we’re eating, shall we?”

Mycroft nodded, smiling as Greg’s skin settled against his own. “I do have another topic of conversation, if you’re amenable,” he said. The fingers on Greg’s back flexed, giving away a little of Mycroft’s nerves.

“Sure,” Greg replied. He leaned up to kiss Mycroft, allowing it to linger. “Love that I can do that now.”

“Indeed you can,” Mycroft replied, and Greg could feel his smile before the kiss broke.

“So, shoot,” Greg said, shifting back and getting comfortable. “What’s on your mind, gorgeous?”

“Gorgeous?” Mycroft said with a raised eyebrow.

Greg shrugged. “If you’re gonna call me beautiful, I’m gonna call you gorgeous,” he said. “Just between us, though.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, and Greg could still hear the thread of surprise in his voice.

_I bet nobody’s ever given him a proper nickname. Not a sweetheart, anyway._

_Jesus._

Mycroft cleared his throat. “The last time we parted our conversation was not entirely concluded,” he said.

Greg had to think back. He’d stumbled awkwardly through telling Mycroft how special he was, if memory served. And Mycroft hadn’t really known how to reply.

_ I don’t…I’m not sure exactly how to explain myself right at the moment, but please do not cause yourself additional anxiety believing your words were not welcome._

“So you’ve had some time to think,” Greg said. He looked down, tracing a swirl on Mycroft’s ribs. “You don’t have to say anything, you know.”

“I know,” Mycroft said quietly. He paused, and Greg could feel him take a deep breath before saying, “Delilah was right. I’m not sure how to best explain how I…feel, except to say that I am infinitely pleased you are here. The best analogy I can find is that it’s as though I have been holding my breath until this moment, and now I can exhale.”

Greg nodded, his heart pounding at the words. He hadn’t ever thought of it as such but hearing the words from Mycroft and they sounded exactly right.

_For my whole life, darlin’. I’ve been holding my breath since I was born, waiting for you._

_Jesus Christ, I can’t tell him that._

“Me too,” he said. “That’s exactly what it’s like.” He drew a breath, surprised at how shaky it was. “I’ve missed you. A lot. Not just the sex.” He grinned at Mycroft’s fast and hard blush. “All of it. Talking to you. Hearing your voice. Jesus, I can’t believe I’m actually living here for a bit. And you’ll be here with me for a few days at least.”

“Nine days,” Mycroft admitted. “The first three days I am to be considered incommunicado, barring an imminent nuclear winter-”

“-of course,” Greg interrupted with a huge grin.

“-however the remaining time I will need to spend some time in my office,” Mycroft replied. “Here in the flat.”

“So you could work naked?” Greg asked in a hopeful tone.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Video conferences would be somewhat awkward,” he replied evenly.

“Yeah, fair enough,” Greg sighed. “Couldn’t have all the nations of the world fighting me for your attentions.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Hardly,” he murmured. His arm curled around Greg when he moved closer, and Greg hummed appreciatively at the feel of their lips coming together.

“So does that mean three days of gratuitous nudity, then?” Greg asked. “Before I’ll have to allow you to hide all this away from me again?” He let his hands slide down Mycroft’s body to settle on his arse, squeezing gently.

“Gregory,” Mycroft protested, squirming in a way that said ‘yes’ a lot more than ‘no’ to Greg. “I don’t think the word ‘gratuitous’ would be accurate,” he added, flipping Greg onto his back. It was clear his body was agreeing with Greg’s touch, as his cock nuzzled into Greg’s hip, pulsing at the contact and filling out a little more. “It would be tiresome to spend so much time dressing only to undress again.”

“I don’t know,” Greg said, gasping and closing his eyes as Mycroft kissed his neck. “Personally I’d be spending five seconds pulling on track pants and a t-shirt. And I can think of a lot of fun to be had undressing someone who wears as many layers as you do.”

Mycroft groaned appreciatively. “Perhaps you could save those up for the days I will, regrettably, be required to dress for work,” he said. “I will inevitably need to undress once my tasks are complete.”

“Sure,” Greg said, his cock pulsing with the very idea. “But I’m guessing that right now, well the next three days, we’re talking minimal clothing, then?”

“We are,” Mycroft replied. He raised his head, one hand cupping Greg’s cheek as he brought their lips together in a gentle kiss. It was slow, and the unhurried pace reminded Greg with a powerful shot of memory how valued he felt with this man.

_He could bring down whole countries, but he spends his time kissing me slow._

Greg was beginning to float away on the soft touch when Mycroft broke the kiss and whispered in his ear, “I’ve been thinking about kissing you every second of every day since you left.”

“Me too,” Greg replied. “Christ, Mycroft, I can’t believe I’m actually here for good now.”

“Neither can I,” Mycroft said, and the wonder was clear in his eyes as he looked at Greg. “It is a dream come true to have you here.”

“Well, you can have me here as many times as you like,” Greg said with a grin, unable to let the opportunity go by. “Or on the sofa, or in the kitchen…”

“Really,” Mycroft replied with a raised eyebrow. “Am I to consider that carte blanche given?”

Greg smiled, holding back the light talk. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Consider yourself free to touch me whenever you want. Wherever you want.” He reached up to touch Mycroft’s face, as much because he wanted to prove to himself this wasn’t a dream as because he just _could_.

“Really,” Mycroft said. “So…this would be alright?”

His hand, still resting on Greg’s face, slid down to rest on his chest.

“Sure,” Greg replied, still holding his eyes.

“And this?”

The touch lightened and shifted slightly, fingertips brushing Greg’s nipple.

“Yes,” Greg said. The electricity shot through his body but he didn’t move. He wondered if Mycroft could see his eyes changing. He could feel his blood heating, the erection that had been a little uncomfortable growing in urgency.

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose, and Greg could see mischief blossoming in his eyes. “So I’m thinking this would be acceptable?”

He eased his body to the side, and the unmistakable feel of an erection grazed across Greg’s thigh. He wanted to groan, but he bit it back, his eyes locked on Mycroft. Long fingers trail slowly down his ribs and settle at the very top of his thigh, light and teasing.

“Yes,” Greg breathed.

Mycroft’s hand was barely resting against his body, brushing the hairs as it shook slightly. Greg was biting his lip. Mycroft’s hand was so close to where he wanted it. He could imagine the feel of those long fingers wrapping around his cock, yet they sat inches away and showed no sign of moving. He could see Mycroft’s eyes holding his, heat smouldering there as well as the playful glint Greg had not expected.

_Jesus._

Arousal flared in him as he pictured the possibilities with a Mycroft like this.

“Greg,” Mycroft murmured. “Is this alright?”

“Jesus, Mycroft,” Greg burst out. “Yes, yes…Jesus…”

He hadn’t yet finished speaking when Mycroft’s hand inched sideways, resting so close Greg could feel the heat from his palm though their skin wasn’t touching there. The heat ghosted through him and the need to roll his hips up, to force the contact was powerful.

_Not yet. He’s in control here._

_Jesus, that’s new._

“Where did this come from?” Greg asked. He was determined not to ask, much as he wanted to beg Mycroft to touch him _there_…

“Where did what come from?” Mycroft asked. “Surely you’re not talking about…” he shifted his hand again, one finger trailing loosely against the side of Greg’s cock.

“Fuck,” Greg groaned, pressing his head back into the pillow. “Of course I am, I didn’t know you were so into…”

“Teasing?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” Greg breathed.

Mycroft hummed. “Trust, I think,” he said slowly, finger trailing delicately up and down. Surely he could feel the jump of Greg’s cock. It felt cataclysmic, a shock through his system every time. “Trust breeds many things.”

“Trust,” Greg repeated, the word more of a strangled gasp than he might have wanted.

“I think,” Mycroft repeated, “you’re bringing things out in me, Greg. New things. Confidence, for example.”

Greg nodded. “I’m all for this one,” he said breathlessly, holding his hips still with every ounce of self-control he possessed.

“Me too,” Mycroft breathed, and his mouth landed on Greg’s at the same time as his fingers curled firmly around Greg’s cock.

His shout was swallowed up by Mycroft’s kiss. Greg let go, hips kicking up into Mycroft’s grip. He couldn’t believe the relief of finally having that pressure around him could be coupled with an immediate increase in the tension winding though him and coiling right in his groin.

He couldn’t call out, or even beg as he wanted to now that his control was in shreds – Mycroft’s mouth was insistent against his, so some whimpering was all he could manage. His fingers were digging into something and he knew his hips were thrusting, Mycroft’s hand offering an immediate counterpoint. The teasing was clearly over and the fast, tight strokes combined with Mycroft’s tongue in his mouth brought Greg to his climax extraordinarily quickly. Before he could do anything his body was tensing and shuddering, spilling over Mycroft’s hand.

He blanked out for a second before coming back to himself, blinking at Mycroft. It took a second to recognise the mouth open panting and rhythmic shaking that told him Mycroft was taking himself in hand again.

“Let me,” Greg said, wrapping his hand around Mycroft’s. It was only a few strokes until he came, holding Greg’s eyes with a look of astonishment as he spilled over both their hands.

Without speaking they collapsed together, a sticky, sweaty mess in the centre of the bed.

_Probably a good thing this isn’t more than three days,_ Greg thought to himself as he pulled air into his lungs. _I could possibly die._


	30. Chapter 30

“You really _do_ have to work today, don’t you?” Greg asked, grinning across the bench at Mycroft. The eye roll that greeted him was affectionate, the same that had met his question every day since Greg had first asked it. They’d fallen into comfortable morning banter now, and Greg was quietly grieving the first day he would have to go to work and their routine would slip away. It was ‘the day after tomorrow’ now, so close it overshadowed the remaining hours they had together.

As Mycroft stood across the bench from Greg, screwing the lid back on the milk, Greg felt his heart do a slow flip flop. He’d been ignoring it since it first started, but the feeling was more insistent with each passing day. Right now he was literally biting his tongue not to let the words blurt out. They bubbled up in him at the most mundane moments – like now, when Mycroft was putting the milk away, for goodness sake, his long fingers precise, his eyes warm on Greg’s as he did so.

_I love you._

Greg brought his tea to his lips for something to do. He was glad he’d decided to get up early that first morning. These quiet times in the kitchen with Mycroft in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves were a reassuring way to start the day. Silly as it sounded, Greg felt like it anchored his whole life right now. Yes, Mycroft was going to get up and go to work, but he would start the day thinking of Greg, and he always sounded regretful when he had to leave.

As he tapped his finger against his mug, Greg wondered how it would be received, the day he couldn’t hold it in any longer. A man only had so much self-control, and this was already bigger than anything he could remember. Every part of him was attuned to Mycroft; he couldn’t imagine his life centred around anything else. He’d never understood those songs people wrote about one person giving your whole life meaning until now. Christ, he was becoming a soppy bastard. The songs about loneliness, he understood. Those had seen into his very soul for a long time. But it had never been the ‘I want you back’ kind of loneliness, it had always been, ‘I want somebody’.

And now he had someone.

He wondered if he was that someone for Mycroft. For all the intimacies they had shared, both physical and personal, there was still a part of Mycroft he wasn’t entirely sure he’d seen. Greg knew it would be hypocritical to judge Mycroft, give what he was holding back right now. He was just…wondering if the hidden emotions were the same on both sides.

_Christ, I hope so._

“I must go,” Mycroft said, drawing Greg gently back to the kitchen. “An eight o’clock meeting that cannot be delayed.”

“O’course,” Greg said with a smile. “Lunch today?”

“Half past one, if that suits,” Mycroft told him, drying his hands on a towel. “Provided my call does not run late. The Turkish ambassador can be verbose at the best of times.”

“Sure,” Greg told him, smiling as Mycroft moved close. A waft of scent preceded his touch, swirling through Greg and making him shiver. “I’ll make us something that’ll keep if you’re held up.”

“How considerate,” Mycroft replied. He pressed a kiss to Greg’s mouth, and the simple action still brought a thrill to him. Mycroft wanted to kiss him. Lingered as he did so, as though he’d rather stay than go shut himself in the office for the next five odd hours.

_Maybe…_

Greg felt his fingers curl into fists. He didn’t want to rumple Mycroft before he headed off to work. From the smile that greeted him when he opened his eyes, Mycroft knew exactly what effect he was having. The confidence Greg had seen that first day had deepened until Mycroft no longer questioned Greg’s response to him. He played with it, in fact, the gentle teasing a side Greg hadn’t expected. He wondered if Mycroft even realised he could be like that. Greg wanted to ask, but it felt too close to the other thing. The thing he wasn’t ready to talk about quite yet.

“I’ll pop out to Asda this morning,” Greg told him, breaking the quiet they’d been enjoying together. “Let me know when I can bring you morning tea.”

“The tea will be welcome,” Mycroft said. “Though perhaps you could limit the biscuits to one today.”

“Two,” Greg countered with a grin, “you might need your strength later.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow and leaned close again. “That thought is not conducive to conducting the professional conversation to which I adjourn,” he murmured. “Blackguard.”

Greg grinned again, another thrill at the nickname rolled from Mycroft’s tongue. “Only for you,” he said.

Not so long ago Mycroft would have dismissed such a compliment. It had taken days before the flash of surprise had stopped appearing in his eyes, even longer before the lingering disbelief disappeared entirely. The flush still coloured his cheeks, but now he stepped closer and pressed another kiss to Greg’s mouth instead, bold in his understanding.

“And I for you,” he replied. “I must go.”

“See you later,” Greg said with a smile. He watched Mycroft leave the room, knowing he would brush and floss, add his suit jacket and check his appearance before closing the office door. Swishing his tea, Greg thought back. Their relationship had changed so much over the days they’d been here, and he could barely believe where they’d started.

The first morning Mycroft was anxious, his posture straight, eyes flickering around as he avoided Greg’s gaze and nervously adjusted his cufflinks. His fingers shook as he made tea. It had taken Greg an embarrassingly long time to suspect what was troubling Mycroft. Without speaking, he stood up, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s shaking figure, willing comfort to chase away his anxiety. After some gentle questions Greg’s fear was confirmed.

“I know you have to work,” he said. “And I don’t want to interrupt what you’re doing.” He smiled. “I’m probably not even allowed to know what you’re doing.”

He’d felt Mycroft relax a little at this, the clue leading him closer to the real truth.

“How about this,” Greg had murmured, one hand making wide circles across the silk back of Mycroft’s waistcoat. “When your office door is closed, I won’t enter, not for anything. I won’t knock or slide things under the door or _anything._” He grinned at his own little joke. “But if you’re doing something I can interrupt, you open your door. I’ll still knock, and wait until you invite me in, but I’ll know I can come see if you want a cuppa or anything.”

Mycroft nodded. When he spoke it was low, and the relief in his voice was palpable. “That is very thoughtful,” he said. “I must admit to some…apprehension about raising the topic with you.”

Greg had turned his head up, making Mycroft look him in the eyes. It was one of the first times he’d had to bite back _I love you_ to his face. “This is your home. I’m the scrounger living here for free, remember?” He grinned. “If it’s really important and the door’s closed, I’ll text you.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said.

“Like if I’m at Tesco and I don’t know what kind of tea you want,” Greg said, the hoped-for grimace and smile at the idea of tea from _Tesco_ appearing right on cue. “Or if they’re out of normal Digestives and I want to know if you’ll eat the chocolate ones.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft protested, kissing him hard. “As if I could resist…chocolate biscuits.”

Greg grinned again, kissing Mycroft back. It had helped set the expectations for their time at home, and he could see Mycroft relaxing as he saw how laid back Greg was with their arrangement.

As if he could be upset.

Mycroft worked every morning, the door closed. Greg would decide what he wanted to cook for lunch, wandering down to Asda or Tesco, depending on which bakery he wanted to visit on the way. Mycroft would message him when it was a good time for a mid-morning cuppa, and Greg always sneaked a few chocolate biscuits on the saucer. Greg would read the paper, then make lunch and watch a repeat of the football if there was a good match on, only paying half attention. The moment Mycroft appeared in the door he abandoned whatever he’d been doing, drinking in the smile that awaited him.

After lunch Mycroft was free unless specific meetings had to be scheduled to match up with various time-zones around the world. Every couple of days they called Addie, lying together on the sofa as speakerphone or Facetime brought them all together, smiling at Lexi’s babbling. Sometimes Mycroft would play the newly-tuned piano, Greg dozing on the sofa. Several times Greg made good on his promise to slowly find his way beneath the layers of clothing Mycroft always wore. More than once they’d run a bath together, lying in the hot water until they’d pruned before tumbling into bed with water still glistening on their skin.

It was glorious. Greg reckoned he could happily do this for…well, not forever, his brain would get restless. But a variation of this would make him a very happy man. Perhaps this could be their Saturday routine, when they were able to. They were both busy; they both needed to prioritise work. But their relationship could be...like this. Something easy, where they could both have their space, secure in the knowledge the other was nearby. Thinking of each other. Wanting to be close. Eating together. Sleeping together.

_Christ, I really am in love._

Greg shook his head, deliberately looking to the far side of the kitchen. His eyes settled on the envelope wedged beside the coffee machine, and a twinge of guilt shot through him. That was the packet of real estate information Anthea had brought on the first day Mycroft had worked. As he stared at the cream paper, he remembered. She was gorgeous, of course, in a curvy, intimidating way, but Greg gave her the same easy grin he gave everyone he worked with, and she raised an eyebrow in return.

He hoped that meant she thought he was alright. She didn’t make any comment as he signed the forms allowing them to dig into his life (small price to pay, really). Either way the envelope had appeared in his hand while she disappeared into Mycroft’s office, door firmly closed. Greg had made a cup of coffee while giving the envelope the side eye. He hadn’t touched it the whole time he drank, and when the cup was washed, dried and put away he’d run out of excuses not to read it. Another few seconds and he decided to go to Tesco first, telling himself he’d get lunch started, sliding the envelope into the tiny gap beside the coffee machine. He’d ignored the little voice that said it was largely invisible.

It hadn’t moved from that spot ever since. Greg knew Mycroft would have spotted it and known what it was, but somehow the subject of him moving out never really came up. He’d unpacked his suitcase at Mycroft’s insistence, and his toothbrush was in the bathroom, his favourite mug in the kitchen, a framed photo of Delilah, Addie and Lexi on a coffee table in the living room. Addie posted new pictures by email and Greg didn’t even protest when Mycroft printed a couple and stuck them with magnetic frames to the fridge. If this was the result, he didn’t care if someone was monitoring his email.

This felt like home, now.

_I’d better get going._ Greg glanced at the clock, restlessly ignoring the thoughts now circling through his brain. He’d miss out on the good chocolate pastries at the bakery if he was too late. He grabbed his wallet and key, unable to stop himself glancing towards the office as he left. It was always weird leaving without letting Mycroft know he was going but today it felt worse. People who lived together always said goodbye when they went out, right?

_But we don’t live together. Not really._

It wasn’t until he was half way there Greg realised he hadn’t decided what to make for lunch, plus he’d left his phone at home so he couldn’t look up any recipes. Something simple, then. He must have walked past the bakery without even noticing because all of a sudden he was standing in the produce section in Tesco, basket in hand. What was wrong with him? He’d not even noticed walking here.

As he stared at a pumpkin, Greg tried to figure out what was going on. What had been different this morning? He’d realised they had just today and tomorrow – but he’d known that was coming. Lunch would be later today than usual, but that was fine; it wasn’t like there was anything else to do. Anything else he _wanted_ to do. So Mycroft had gone to work, and Greg had…

_Oh._

_Right._

It was the real estate envelope, which had started him thinking about moving out. Which sounded ridiculous because he hadn’t really moved _in_, not properly.

It wasn’t his home.

But it was Mycroft’s.

The thought hit him like a truck. He heard himself make a noise, glancing at the woman beside him as she chose a handful of beans.

_Oh._

That was the reason. He hadn’t really thought about the situation since he’d very deliberately _not_ read the envelope Anthea had brought. But today the end felt so much closer, and he’d seen the envelope, and that reminded him – he was meant to be using this time to figure out where he was going to live. Permanently. Without Mycroft.

He wouldn’t see Mycroft every morning.

Maybe not even every day.

It felt like a kick in the chest.

_Ohhhh._

Blindly, Greg turned around, dropping the basket somewhere near the door as he walked out. He couldn’t do the shopping, not now. Not without talking to Mycroft. Or seeing him, or something. As his feet took him automatically back in what he hoped was the right direction, Greg’s mind was roiling, half formed ideas and thoughts fighting for his attention. But he couldn’t put them in any kind of order. He had no idea what he wanted to say to Mycroft; the need to be close was just strong, stronger than ever, and his heart was beating hard and fast, and one phrase overriding everything else.

_I love him. I love him. I love him._

“Good morning, sir,” the receptionist said as he entered their building.

_His building._

_Not yours._

Greg smiled tightly, breathing deliberately, standing still for the security checks until the lift arrived. It took forever to rise to their floor (_his floor, not yours, you don’t live here…_). He still hadn’t decided what he was going to say when he got inside, but Mycroft was waiting for him when he stepped into the kitchen. He looked anxious.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Reception rang me,” Mycroft said, his eyes raking over Greg. “They said you appeared distressed and alerted me to a potential security issue.”

“I’m fine,” Greg bit out.

Mycroft clearly didn’t believe him, but he reached for the phone anyway, murmuring a few words to reception before turning back to Greg. “You are not fine,” he said flatly.

Greg braced to hear something else, but Mycroft stood still instead. His spine was straight and he looked more like ‘before’ Mycroft than Greg had seen in a long time. Face shuttered but eyes sharp as they took in everything.

_He’s anxious._

Greg’s brain was still frantic but the thought was discernible amongst the chaos. He could see it in a thousand small details, and he drew a deep breath, holding it before he breathed out, fighting the panic in his body. He still had no idea what to say. Where would he start? He and Mycroft hadn’t even talked about this at all, how could he bring it up out of the blue? What would that do to Mycroft’s current state of mind?

As Greg watched, Mycroft folded his hands in front of him and the trembling of his hands was visible. The careful settling of his fingers together in front of his body was familiar in its precision, and the small action caught at his heart. It reminded Greg of when he was waiting for Mycroft to speak in Sherlock’s front room. His fingers trembled then too.

_Not doing it will be worse than doing it._

Greg took a deep breath, holding it more easily than any of the previous attempts. For some reason that thought pressed over the rabble of thoughts in his brain and he could focus again. He just needed to do this conversation. And from what he could see of Mycroft, his brain was supplying a worst case scenario, so Greg needed to do it now, and he needed to be clear and careful as he chose his words.

_Carefully chosen words._

_Remember, in Gander?_

_It worked then. It can work here, too._

“I haven’t looked at the flats Anthea brought over,” Greg said without preamble.

Mycroft blinked. “I see,” he said, and the caution was there that told Greg he wasn’t sure of the significance of this statement.

The space between them felt wide, and Greg suddenly ached to be closer. He held himself back, swallowing hard. His fingernails bit into his palms. This was harder than he thought it would be. Harder than Gander.

_More to lose now._

_So much more to lose._

“I haven’t even thought about it,” Greg said, the words coming more easily now that he’d started. “I put the envelope next to the coffee machine and I just forgot.”

Mycroft nodded, eyes still cautious.

“And I saw it today,” Greg said. This was where it got tricky. Messy to explain. “And I’d realised I go back to work the day after tomorrow, which suddenly feels really close, and then I saw the envelope and remembered I was meant to be looking for somewhere to live, which reminded me I don’t really live here, and that…” he trailed off as his mouth reached the furthest point to which his brain had planned.

Mycroft was blinking, processing his words, and Greg bit back the mess of what he was going to say. He had to give Mycroft a few minutes to deal with what he’d already put out there. Part of him hoped Mycroft might figure out the rest on his own. It would save Greg from trying to find the right words.

“And that was…distressing?” Mycroft asked carefully.

“Yeah,” Greg said, relieved to have the word supplied to him. “Yeah, it was.”

“Why?” Mycroft whispered. His fingers were gripping tight, the knuckles white against his dark suit.

_Jesus._

Greg was good at reading Mycroft, that was true. But he had no idea where this new knowledge came from until it arrived in his brain. He’d had the same thing at work sometimes; all the tiny things assembling in his brain too fast to follow but he could see the answer, the certainty of it heavy in his mind.

_He loves me too._

“I want to stay here,” Greg said, berating himself for his cowardice. He wasn’t trying to draw this out, but it was harder than he thought to shape the words the first time. Hearing them in his head was one thing, but saying them aloud was another. “I didn’t realise I thought of this as home. I mean, I know it’s not, but…”

“Why do you want to stay?” Mycroft asked, and again Greg was thrown back to Sherlock’s front room, the look in the grey eyes as Mycroft begged him to speak the words.

_Convince me. Tell me why you’ve come all this way._

Greg remembered taking the chance, and the payoff.

_If you’re so sure, say it._

With a deep breath, Greg stepped closer, feeling himself pulled in towards Mycroft. His fingers carefully unknotted Mycroft’s, taking them in his own, noticing how Mycroft was allowing him to do it.

“I want to stay,” he said. “I want to see you every day. I want to cook for you, and get a text message when I can bring you a cuppa and put too many biscuits on your saucer.”

“I would not be working from home,” Mycroft protested. “Nor would you.”

“I know,” Greg said. “I don’t mean…I know it wouldn’t be like this all the time. But some of this. The, I dunno,” he took a deep breath, “I want the…the _feel _of this. I could get up with you. Have tea in the kitchen in the morning. Kiss you goodbye.” He took another deep breath. “Tell you I love you in person.”

Mycroft’s fingers clenched and his eyes widened at Greg’s words. He nodded absently, his brain practically audible as it worked hard to assess this new information. Greg would bet a sizable piece of his soul that nobody had ever told Mycroft they loved him. Not as an adult. Not as a lover. The uncertainty was back, the vulnerability as he searched Greg’s face for confirmation it was the truth. Greg stood still, his heart hammering. He adored watching Mycroft’s expression change. It meant he’d dropped the professional façade. It meant he’d come back to the two of them, to not hiding himself. From Greg, at least.

“If you would like to stay,” Mycroft said, his voice not entirely steady, “I would be more than happy to have you.”

“Really?” Greg asked with a grin of relief. _Thank God. _“That’d be great. Seriously?”

“Honestly, it would be…fine,” Mycroft said. “Not a burden at all.”

Greg had already moved close enough to kiss Mycroft when the significance of his words made themselves known.

“Hang on,” Greg said, and the familiar smile on Mycroft’s face confirmed his suspicion. _Carefully chosen._ “Someone once told me only liars say, ‘honestly’ at the start of their sentences.”

“I wouldn’t believe a single statement from such a person,” Mycroft said, returning Greg’s kiss.

“Well I have it on good authority they’re quite trustworthy,” Greg replied.

“From whom?” Mycroft asked.

“Oh, he’s just a minor government official,” Greg replied.

“Definitely not to be trusted,” Mycroft said.

Their smiles came together in a kiss full of slow and tender. Greg’s heart did another flip, and this time when the impulse rose in him, he didn’t have to hold it back.

_Oh, God, I can say it._

“I love you,” he murmured against Mycroft’s ear.

“And I you,” Mycroft replied, pressing a kiss into Greg’s neck.

He shivered and pulled Mycroft closer. The old fashioned phrase was a perfect way to end the conversation – and perhaps start something more.

END...or is it?

EPILOGUE TO COME VERY SOON.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. After I plunged into Come From Away last year it was inevitable Greg and Mycroft would end up in Gander (sorry, fellas). I did not imagine this would end up being such an epic, though.  
I have to thank Shesquackers for firsthand Newfoundland knowledge, and Saratonin for her role as beta, cheerleader and all around encourager of this story. It's probably her fault there's an epilogue on the way. ;)  
Thank you everyone who has read along, berated me for cliffhangers, and those patient souls who have waited for this to be finished. <3


	31. Epilogue

The ring was no heavier than any other, not in a physical sense. It sat in a drawer, buried under his socks, anyway. But emotionally it pressed on Greg more than anything. It was a different heaviness than anything that had worried him. Not the same as his concern for Addie before Lexi was born, or the dead weight of loneliness that had dragged him down at various points in his life.

This was like the promise of something new. Like holding in the knowledge of a birthday party, planned but not told; the anticipation of happiness he’d seen in others but never held himself. Greg wasn’t sure he could be happier or more content than he was right now, but the absolute knowledge that he and Mycroft would be together forever – that they’d discussed it and made it public – couldn’t hurt. They’d talked about things, of course, but neither had actually brought up The Question. The anxiety of an unknown response was tempered with long looks he and Mycroft shared whenever ideas arose in their conversations – holidays planned in many years, casual mentions of ‘when Lexi’s old enough to fly on her own’, or ‘after I retire…’

Mycroft would say yes, Greg knew he would.

But the time wasn’t quite right, and he knew with their holidays planned for the following month, there would surely be an opportunity. Anthea had proven to be a romantic at heart, though she would never have admitted the truth, but Greg’s casual requests had been fulfilled without comment and he suddenly had information he’d never be able to get on his own. Mycroft’s ring size, allergy to pure silver and preference for blue sapphires appeared one day from an anonymous phone number. Greg had hidden the smile of realisation quite well, he thought. Just in case, though, he’d taken both their wine glasses, placed them carefully on the coffee table and snogged Mycroft senseless.

Just in case.

The last day of work was always good. Greg didn’t even care when a bunch of paperwork had to be redone. He had four weeks off, four glorious weeks in which he could officially Not Care about the status of his cases and he knew for certain his boss would not be able to contact him for any reason. Mycroft would make sure of that. Greg was humming as he signed off on the extra hours the team had put in this week; normally he’d have tried to hold back a bit, but he wouldn’t be there to get chewed out about the budget at the end of the month. Sally’d be taking over, and she’d probably take it far more meekly than Greg would. It was part of the process, anyway. If she really wanted his job, she’d have to be able to deal with the like of the Superintendent.

Nothing was going to ruin this mood, and he shot Sally a wink as he left, nodding at the paperwork he’d dropped on her desk. She flipped him off, which made him laugh out loud as he headed home.

_Home._

Stepping into his building still made Greg smile, especially today.

“Hi, April,” he said, smiling at the receptionist. “Any news on that niece of yours yet?”

“Born last night,” April replied, returning his smile. “And would you believe my brother and his wife had been hiding another one in there?”

“What?” Greg said, turning his gaze away from the painting in astonishment. “Shit, sorry.” He turned to face it again, saying, “Twins, seriously?”

“Two girls,” April said. “Clarissa and Emily.”

“Well congratulations twice over, then,” Greg told her. He mentally updated the present he and Mycroft would be giving – have to see if he could get Anthea to swing into Harrods or somewhere for another ‘cheeky little monkey’ suit. They were due to leave the next morning, wanting as much time as possible out of London, as Greg put it, but Anthea would still be here, covering Mycroft’s role.

“Out of London?” Mycroft had replied with a smile. They were wrapped together on the sofa, three months out from their holiday, cementing dates so Mycroft could ensure Anthea’s clearance had been upgraded for the duration. Greg wasn’t entirely sure where he ended and Mycroft began in the tangle of limbs, and it was glorious.

“Yep,” Greg said, fingers stroking the back of his neck. “Doesn’t really feel like I’m on holidays if I’m just hanging around at home.”

Mycroft hummed, the vibrations flowing through both of them. “Noted,” he said. “In which case we will depart as early as possible Saturday morning.”

“Well,” Greg said, turning over so he could reach to kiss Mycroft, “it doesn’t have to be too early.”

Mycroft’s eyes glittered in the candlelight at he reached down to meet Greg.

The conversation ended there as other things took over their attention. Several days later, Mycroft confirmed their flights with Greg. They’d be picked up early (but not too early) to escape London for as long as possible. At the time the weeks in between felt like an eternity, and yet here he was now, packed and ready to depart the following day.

“Myke?” Greg called. He took great satisfaction dropping his badge and work keys in the drawer instead of in the bowl. It always marked the beginning of a few days off when he did it. This time his break was longer, of course, and he breathed out more work tension as he shook off his coat and hung it behind the door.

“Myke?” he called again. It wouldn’t be unusual for him to still be working; there were many things to be wrapped up before they left, and Greg wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft was gone until after their usual evening meal time. The office door was open, but it proved empty when Greg ducked his head inside. There was no note on the kitchen bench, or text on his phone; he’d checked as he entered before turning the device off and leaving it on the hall table.

“My-” Greg started again as he entered the bedroom, the word dying on his lips as his eyes landed on the bed.

“Myke,” he breathed, this time barely able to shape the sound as his lips curved up. It didn’t happen often, but when it did…Greg swallowed hard. Mycroft had certainly grown more comfortable in the last year or so.

The man in question sat in the middle of their bed, not a stitch of clothing covering his skin. His eyes were dark, locked on Greg as he stood in the doorway. One hand slowly passed up and down his cock, and as Greg moved closer, his hands reaching for the buttons on his shirt, he could see Mycroft had been waiting for a while.

_Sheets mussed. He’s been shifting around._

_Lips parted, breathing uneven, face and chest flushed, pupils wide._

_Legs a bit apart – he always does that when he’s getting closer._

“You been waiting for me, sugar?”

The words fell from Greg’s lips without thinking. He knew by now Mycroft liked it when his speech shifted back towards the rougher grammar of his childhood; the flash of grey eyes told him it had been noted. He tugged his shirt out from the back of his pants, eyes still roving over Mycroft as he started on his belt.

“I have,” Mycroft replied. His hand was still moving, the rest of him still as he waited for Greg to join him. “I expected you…earlier.”

“I can see that,” Greg replied. His trousers, pants, and socks were stripped off without fanfare; he could feel his cock filling out to its full hardness as he kicked everything away. He crawled onto the bed, cock swaying beneath him as Mycroft reached for him.

Just before their bodies met, Mycroft breathed, “Welcome to your holidays.”

+++

“I didn’t even think you might have chartered a plane,” Greg said for the tenth time since they’d pulled up at the small private airfield. He’d marvelled over the lounge, grinned widely at the sommelier as she offered Greg a glass of wine and shot her an apologetic smile when Mycroft pointed out that their plane was ready to leave. The opulence of the plane itself was ridiculous, and Greg knew Mycroft was watching him as he didn’t try to his astonishment at how comfortable it all was.

“I know,” Mycroft said, still calm and amused by Greg’s incredulity. “I believe you were more concerned I might waste money on first class tickets.”

“Well, yeah, Dallas isn’t that far,” Greg said, stretching into his leather chair. More than wide enough for his shoulders and he could stretch his legs all the way out. “I mean, it’s not close, but-”

Mycroft stopped him speaking by reaching over and kissing him. Greg immediately relaxed into it, leaning closer to cup Mycroft’s face. The kiss was familiar of course, but the slight stubble beneath his fingers always worked for Greg. How was he meant to resist the faintly russet shadow, knowing it only appeared when Mycroft absolutely did not have to work? Knowing how it felt dragged across his neck, his chest…his thighs…

“That will always work, you know,” Greg said with a breathless grin when Mycroft eased back.

“I hope so,” Mycroft replied. His eyes lingered on Greg’s, and the atmosphere condensed around them as it was so often lately. “I adore you,” he added, the low murmur clearly for Greg’s ears alone. Even though there was nobody else in the cabin, Greg still loved that Mycroft did that.

_He wants it to be special for me._

“I love you too,” Greg replied, leaning into another kiss, long and slow. There was nobody to offend here, and the thought crossed his mind more than once that they could probably do a whole lot more than kissing if they were so inclined. And he was mostly always inclined when it came to gorgeous redheads on planes.

“This plane is not actually my property,” Mycroft said as Greg sneaked one hand inside his jacket, easing fingers beneath the edge of his trousers. “Any…mess would have to be professionally cleaned.”

“Are you telling me you’ve already forgotten how we usually get around that problem?” Greg asked, taking Mycroft’s earlobe into his mouth.

“N…no,” Mycroft said with a groan. “But…”

“But?” Greg asked. “We’re not talking hidden cameras, I hope.”

“No,” Mycroft breathed.

“And I’ll bet the crew are on the discreet side,” Greg continued, scraping his teeth gently. Now that he’d realised this really was a possibility he was playing dirty pool without a scrap of remorse.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied.

“So?” Greg asked, easing his hand around Mycroft’s hip to settle over the bulge in his trousers.

“So…” Mycroft repeated, and Greg pulled back to watch the response as he reached around to cup Mycroft’s cock through his trousers. It was always the same, but that didn’t dampen Greg’s fascination. Eyes closed, mouth open, head thrown back. Fingers gripping Greg’s arm this time; he was usually holding a pillow or a cushion, depending on where they were doing this.

The private room at Mycroft’s club had hosted a number of intimate dinners for Mycroft Holmes and his partner in the past year. None had required a cleaning crew after, despite the entertainment that inevitably followed their meal.

“So…yes?” Greg asked with a grin. He brought his mouth right up to Mycroft’s ear, knowing his breath would be hot against his skin. “It’s another eight hours to Dallas. We might even be able to go twice.”

The strangled groan and a hand pulling him down into a bruising kiss was enough of a yes for Greg.

+++

The trip passed quickly once Greg convinced Mycroft to join the mile high club.

“Please do not mention that phrase again,” Mycroft said with a wince. The crew were exactly as discreet as Greg had hoped, and their on board meal was delivered after they’d both had plenty of chance to recover.

“A bit low brow for you?” Greg asked with a grin.

“If it would not offend you for me to admit it, yes,” Mycroft said. “Did you enjoy your sleep?”

“I did,” Greg said, stretching. “Can’t believe I slept so long, though. Are we really almost landing?”

“Half an hour until touchdown, give or take,” Mycroft confirmed.

“Do you think we could open the blinds?” Greg asked. “I like watching the landing.”

Mycroft flicked a look at him, and Greg knew he did a double take.

“What?” he asked.

Was that guilt? Greg turned back to face Mycroft, his eyes probing hard. Mycroft rarely drew his professional air around him anymore, but Greg could see the edges of it begin as Mycroft realised he’d given away something he didn’t want to. Reaching out, Greg wound his fingers into Mycroft’s, deliberately pulling him back into their dynamic.

“Don’t,” Greg said softly. “Please don’t shut me out.”

Mycroft hesitated, a deep breath helping his drop his defensive expression. “Don’t think I didn’t recognise that paraphrase,” he murmured. He looked…Greg couldn’t quite determine the right word, but abashed and embarrassed and guilty all came close to fitting.

“Yeah, well I’ve seen Frozen as many times as you have now,” he retorted. “You’re the one who wants to be sure we know what’s happening over there. Can I help it if Addie’s trying to make sure Lexi sees every possible movie before she’s two?”

Mycroft opened his mouth again, but Greg beat him to it. “Oh, no, we’re not getting caught up in the ‘appropriate role models’ conversation again,” he said. “You’re trying to divert our conversation.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said. “I must beg your forgiveness, Gregory.”

“My forgiveness?” Greg repeated. He felt something in him go cold. “For…for what?”

“Nothing serious,” Mycroft said. “A small change to our plans.” He smiled, though it was hesitant and Greg could see his nerves below the surface. “More of an…Olaf than a Hans, if you will.”

Greg smiled despite himself. “Will you tell me, please?” he asked. He hated having secrets between them. After they’d officially moved in together their hours had been filled with talking and Greg no longer felt like there were parts of Mycroft he didn’t know. Christ knew he’d told Mycroft everything about himself.

_Except the ring._

That was the one thing, and it still bit in at the edges when he thought of it, tucked safely away in a pair of socks in his suitcase. He hated keeping things from Mycroft. That was a good secret, though, he told himself. And he wouldn’t keep it forever. Not for much longer at all, in fact.

“Myke?” he whispered.

“Why don’t you open the blind?” Mycroft said eventually.

Greg frowned. He’d learned that when Mycroft might seem to be asking him to do something random, it was often answering the question Greg had asked. He stood up and reached over, blinking in the bright light. The sun glinted off the water below them.

Hang on, water? They should be over land by now…

“What?” Greg said, glancing at Mycroft. “We’re not…where are we going?”

“We are half an hour from Gander Airport,” Mycroft said apologetically. “You didn’t sleep as long as you feared, my dear.”

“Wait, what? Gander?” Greg asked. His brain was pulling pieces together even as his heart was pounding with the potential implications of the change. _Stop it._ “That’s why the private plane.”

“The Sultan of Brunei owed me a sizable favour,” Mycroft admitted. He stood next to Greg, close enough for their shoulders to brush. “I thought we could spend some time here on purpose.”

“Addie knows,” Greg said, his detective’s brain putting pieces together.

“She does,” Mycroft said. “She is looking forward to seeing you, however.”

“We’re going to Dallas?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “Two weeks in Gander, two in Dallas before we return to London.”

Greg stared at him, unable to believe his luck. “Wow,” he managed.

_I can propose here._

_It will be perfect._

“Thank you,” he managed, pulling Mycroft into a tight hug. “It’s perfect,” he whispered. His heart was pounding hard. This was the kind of secret he could get behind.

“I feel like I must apologise,” Mycroft said, arms still wrapped around Greg. “For deceiving you. I felt terrible doing so.”

“This is exactly the kind of deception I am absolutely okay with,” Greg told him, pulling back so he could smile into Mycroft’s eyes. “Honestly, it is.”

“Honestly?” Mycroft said with a smile.

“Yep,” Greg replied. He looked out the window again. “I can see land. We should probably sit down again.”

“We should,” Mycroft said.

“So should I assume you’ve made plans for us while we’re here?” Greg asked, sitting down again. Mycroft hesitated, so Greg jumped in, “Or if you’d rather I can just go along and not ask questions.”

Mycroft met his eyes as his seatbelt clicked into place. “That would be…excellent,” he said. “I will answer any direct question you put to me, of course.”

Greg hesitated, a very specific and important question coming immediately to mind.

_Even that one?_

He swallowed it down. “Of course,” he said. “I trust you.”

Mycroft smiled, taking his hand, fingers stroking the skin almost absently.

“I have made some plans,” Mycroft admitted. “It seemed a shame to come so far without catching up with…old friends.”

“Great,” Greg replied with a grin. “Well, I’ll just leave things up to you now.”

Mycroft smiled, and they sat in the quiet for the last moments of their flight, hands still joined. Greg tried to hold down his brain as it enthusiastically tried to pre-empt what was going to happen. He should just let it go, he told himself, suppressing a grin. God, they really had seen that movie a lot lately.

“It’s weird to just…get off the plane,” Greg said as they disembarked. “And it’s not windy at all.”

“I believe there will be a lot of odd moments while we are here,” Mycroft replied. “Some will be surreal, I am sure.”

“Of course,” Greg replied. A thought occurred to him. “Hey, we can get Timbits again!”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied with a smile. “As many as you like.”

“Are you sure?” Greg said. “That sounds like a challenge to me.”

“I’ll consider it my duty to help you work off the calories,” Mycroft said with a sideways glance.

“Excellent,” Greg replied.

Customs was easy. Probably the fact that they were the only plane currently on the tarmac helped, Greg thought in amusement. And this time, there was a car waiting to take them to their hotel.

“Nice place,” Greg said as they were shown to their room. The same hotel, though this time he was fairly sure they were in the best suite the place offered. The receptionist definitely remembered them; she gave them both a warm welcome as she handed over their keys.

“This time one bed should suffice,” Mycroft said, his arms coming around Greg’s waist.

“Yep,” Greg replied with a smile, turning to meet Mycroft’s mouth in a long, slow kiss.

“I’ve booked this hotel for a several nights. There are some accommodation options further out of town,” Mycroft said eventually, “but I thought we might make a decision on that matter together. Perhaps see some of the natural beauty of the island,” he added.

“I see some natural beauty right here,” Greg murmured, his smile pressing to Mycroft’s as they both grinned at his silly comment. He felt warmth roll through him as they kissed again, the possibilities ahead of them. There would surely be somewhere perfect for him to ask the question. Somewhere isolated, just the two of them, like when they first started, in that tiny secluded spot overlooking the water.

_Perfect._

“Perfect,” Greg sighed as they eased apart.

Mycroft smiled at him. “I thought we could go for a walk,” he said. “Stretch our legs first.”

“Sure,” Greg said. “Anywhere in particular?”

“I was envisioning Timbits,” Mycroft admitted. “On your behalf, of course.”

“Of course,” Greg said. Stepping back, he looked at Mycroft’s clothes. He was perfectly presented, of course, even after hours on a plane. Greg felt comfortably rumpled, but he knew he had some things more suited to Gander in his case. “Do you think you should get changed? We could go back to buy more boots from Walmart.” He felt himself grin at the memory, and afresh at Mycroft’s horrified expression.

“This time I was prepared for our visit,” Mycroft replied, opening the wardrobe. His smile was smug as Greg felt his mouth drop open. Several pairs of trousers, shirts, boots…everything Mycroft could need for their holiday here was waiting. It didn’t take an expert to know they were far higher quality than anything Walmart might have to offer. Nevertheless, Greg turned with raised eyebrows to Mycroft.

“I didn’t realise Walmart delivered,” he said, his chuckle rolling into a full blown laugh at Mycroft’s expression. “You thought I might notice the clothes before we’d left, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Mycroft said. “Anthea ensured their safe arrival several days ago.”

“You put a hell of a lot of thought into this,” Greg said, smiling. “Thank you.”

“As I have said on many occasions,” Mycroft said, easing his arms around Greg’s waist again, “I adore you. Please consider the effort to coordinate our experience here a small expression of my love.”

Though he managed to smile again, Greg’s heart heaved at Mycroft’s words. Mycroft’s love was clear in his actions, but he rarely made declarations such as that. Greg couldn’t even think of how to respond, so he just buried his face in Mycroft’s shoulder, overwhelmed by the emotions running riot through his body.

_He’s going to say yes. I don’t see how he wouldn’t._

The Timbits were every bit as good as Greg remembered. He was pleasantly surprised that Crystal remembered their names, coming around the counter to greet them both as they entered. She was delighted to see them, though Greg noticed this time she didn’t make any assumptions about their relationship. The idea of coming back to show her Mycroft’s ring made something fizz bright inside him, and Greg felt his fingers tighten around Mycroft’s. He fought to smile blandly at her, not wanting to give Mycroft any clue to what he was thinking right now.

They wandered through the town, remembering the last time they were here. Greg could feel Mycroft still holding some of the tension from home; he hoped it would ease soon. Four weeks was a long time for him to be away from work, but he was the one who offered. Greg suggested two weeks away and two weeks in London, with Mycroft on minimal duties; Mycroft was the one who countered, reminding him that Britain needed him more than he needed it. Greg’d been sceptical, and surprised, but Mycroft insisted, his words gentle and firm as he met Greg’s eyes over dinner one night.

Greg wondered what he’d told people at his work.

He wondered what they’d said in return.

Either way, it didn’t matter. They had four weeks off, Mycroft’s contact details available only to Anthea and only to be used in the direst of circumstances. It was natural it would take a few days for Mycroft to get used to being so far from work. Greg privately decided they might test the bed together that evening. After all, they’d only managed one round on the plane, what with the shorter than anticipated flight time.

“So, are we dressing up for dinner tonight?” Greg asked as they stood in the lift up to their room. He was starting to get tired despite his nap, his body still on London time. They’d agreed to have an early meal, and his plans for the bed notwithstanding, Greg knew he’d sleep well tonight.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Mycroft replied.

He’d become more tense, as the afternoon wore on, and now that they’d returned to the hotel, Greg hoped he could do something to relax him. When the door closed behind them, Greg eased up behind Mycroft, wrapping his arms around him and murmuring in his ear.

“It’s still early,” he said. “And the plane was hours ago.” He flattened his hands against Mycroft’s belly, settling them against the white shirt he knew Mycroft had picked because it echoed what he’d worn last time they were here. Greg’s fingers tucked under the buckle of Mycroft’s belt, echoing the suggestion of his words.

“It is,” Mycroft said. He hesitated, then eased a little away, turning to face Greg. “I wonder if I might beg your indulgence.”

_He’s anxious._

By now, Greg didn’t even try to analyse how he knew it. He knew it because he knew Mycroft.

“Of course, gorgeous,” he replied. _Plenty of time._ “I’m not going to ask questions, remember?”

Mycroft nodded, hesitating. “You may have questions before we are done,” he said, the words as carefully chosen as the last time they were here.

“I can hold them in,” Greg said with a grin. “Remember how hard it was to hold in, ‘I love you’ the first time?”

Mycroft nodded again, and Greg was surprised to see him blush. It was months since he’d blushed like that at anything Greg had said. Well, anything as innocuous as that, at least. There had been plenty of deep conversations, especially after their conversation about living together. Greg told Mycroft how difficult he’d found it to hold in the words, and why, and how much of a chance it had felt to say it that first day. It was such a relief to hear the same from Mycroft, though he’d been questioning the speed of their connection, and whether what he felt was love or not. Even now, he said, ‘I adore you’ far more than ‘I love you’. From what Greg could tell, the concept of love had been skewed a long way from normal by his parents.

He was glad they still hadn’t met. He wasn’t sure he wanted to meet people who didn’t even call their son on Christmas, or his birthday, or told him that love made him weak. Especially the last part. Mycroft’s tears were pressed into Greg’s shoulder as he whispered the words to Greg late one night. It had taken all his self-control to hold Mycroft gently instead of leaping up to slay the dragons whose words had cast such a long and miserable shadow over his life. Greg had long term plans for showing Mycroft what love could do for him, and they started with the ring still cocooned inside his socks.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly. “For trusting me.”

“Of course,” Greg replied. “I love you.”

Mycroft smiled. Greg thought he was going to kiss him again, but instead he rested their foreheads together, breathing deeply. Greg thought he might be drawing in his courage, which was a strange idea given the circumstances. What had he planned for this evening that would make him so nervous?

Greg wiped his mind clear. No. Whatever it was, Mycroft obviously wanted it to be a surprise, so he’d let it be a surprise.

Standing up straight, he looked at Mycroft, allowing all his love and trust to flow between them.

“Okay gorgeous,” he said with a grin, “what do I need to do first?”

“A shower and a shave,” Mycroft said, the concrete answer helping him focus. “Your clothes will be waiting for you out here when you are done.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” he said, holding back on guessing what they might be doing. Instead he kissed Mycroft lightly and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. It was unsurprising to find his usual toiletries there. Well, _their_ usual toiletries. When the stuff he’d brought to Mycroft’s had run out, he’d simply started using what was there instead. The shampoo and shower gel were far nicer than the stuff he used to buy. He kept his cologne, though; Mycroft had commented on it several times, and Greg liked it too.

When he was clean and carefully shaved – he took his time, not wanting to cut himself or miss a spot – Greg stepped out of the bathroom. Clean underpants had appeared as he showered, so he’d donned those. The second he stepped out of the bathroom Mycroft jumped up from his chair, kissing Greg as he slid past, presumably to follow the same ablutions. The suit bag and shoes he was carrying suggested he planned to dress in there, too.

Greg grinned, his heart fluttering when Mycroft wouldn’t meet his eyes. Whatever they were doing it was going to be fun. Something Mycroft had obviously planned closely, if the toiletries in the….

“Holy shit,” Greg whispered as he spotted the suit waiting for him. It was hanging in the open wardrobe, a note with his name pinned to the padded coathanger. He slipped it loose, unfolding the single square of hotel stationary with clumsy fingers.

_Gregory,_

_I assure you, your questions will be answered shortly. I will endeavour to be speedy in my ablutions as we do have an appointment at six o’clock. I would be grateful if you were ready by five minutes to the hour._

_I have your cufflinks._

_With love now and always,_

_Mycroft_

Greg swallowed. ‘With love now and always’? He’d never known Mycroft to be so florid in his writing. He usually signed notes with an initial and a cross or two; never something as concrete as ‘now and always’. A whisper of an idea floated up in Greg’s mind but he pressed it down. He wasn’t going to jump the gun on this. Mycroft wanted him to be surprised, so he was going to let himself be surprised. Greg picked up his watch, feeling his eyes widen as he saw the time – only fifteen minutes to dress. Mycroft would no doubt be ready on time, even with Greg’s extended shower. He sent a silent apology into the bathroom. Better get moving, then.

Greg folded the note carefully, tucking it unto the outer pocket of his suitcase before turning his attention to the suit. It was beautifully made, and Greg would bet it was a match for the suit Mycroft had insisted his tailor create for their trip to Dallas earlier that year for Lexi’s christening. The shirt was new as well, and Greg spied shoes and socks tucked into the bottom of the wardrobe, too. Of course, Mycroft had thought of everything.

As he pulled on the trousers, Greg realised they were cut a little closer than his christening suit. Definitely Mycroft’s influence, he thought, remembering the lamentations that they did not have someone in Dallas to amend them at short notice. Well, these were definitely flattering, Greg thought, turning to look at himself in the slim mirror. Deep blue instead of black, and the jacket was cut of the same cloth. The tailor’s voice echoed in his mind, explaining that it emphasised his broad shoulders. Even Greg could see that; he was ruined for the suit he’d always worn to court, an off the rack number he’d bought on sale.

Mycroft had shown deep satisfaction when Greg threw it out.

Finally, Greg was done, cufflinks aside, of course. The shirt was crisp, and he was thankful Mycroft had insisted on teaching him how to tie a bowtie properly. He felt a little silly, if he was honest, but the suit was very flattering. The black lapels were some kind of silky material, the same as the lining of his jacket, though it was a red that strongly reminded Greg of the Tim Horton’s logo. Surely that was just him. Either way, it was a nice touch, subtle but not too flashy. Greg grinned at the dress socks Mycroft had supplied. They were black to match his shoes except for a tiny pattern of bright blue bobby’s helmets embroidered around the top band.

It would be invisible to everyone, but he would know they were there, and he was still grinning when he stood up from tying his shoes. His hair was good, and it was with a last glance at the close bathroom door Greg did what he’d been debating in the back of his mind since he’d seen the suit and realised Mycroft had organised something special. His fingers fumbled, but he finally found the ring.

Mycroft’s ring. Maybe he’d slip it onto Mycroft’s finger tonight, amid teary whispers of love; perhaps it would wait until another night. But he wanted it near, either way. The box was too bulky, so Greg folded it carefully into a handkerchief and slid it into his jacket pocket. A quick check that it didn’t ruin the line – he didn’t think it did – and he was just working up a good anxious panic when the bathroom door opened and Mycroft stepped out.

Greg had seen Mycroft in nice suits, of course, but they’d never gone anywhere seriously nice before, not as a couple, and this…this was _not _a work suit.

“Wow,” Greg managed.

Mycroft’s suit was black to his navy, cut differently of course, but it fit him perfectly. His legs looked longer than Greg remembered, and the waistcoat under his jacket was to cover what Greg knew was his self-consciousness about his stomach. His bowtie was a match for Greg’s, and Greg felt his heart thump hard at the care that had clearly gone into this evening. It was going to be very special, regardless of what they did.

_Definitely tonight._

_Holy shit, it’s tonight._

“You look wonderful,” Mycroft said, stepping across the space.

He was concentrating on Greg’s suit, not quite meeting Greg’s eyes. He’s shy, Greg thought in astonishment, a wave of affection rolling through him. Was he was worried about how he looked?

“You too,” Greg said, resting his hands on Mycroft’s waist. “These suits are incredible.”

“Marcus is a genius,” Mycroft said. “As I’m sure you already know.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He watched Mycroft’s eyes rove over him and grinned when they lingered at his bowtie. “Go on,” he said, his grin widening when Mycroft’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Fix the tie, you know you want to.”

He held still as Mycroft pulled it loose, retying it in seconds. “It was a very good attempt,” Mycroft said gravely.

“Not as good as you, though,” Greg said.

“I learned a long time ago,” Mycroft said.

“Thank you for this,” Greg said. “Whatever you’ve organised. It’s already amazing and we haven’t left the room yet.”

Nerves filled the grey eyes again, and Greg pushed away the possibilities that came to him.

“I hope you’ll enjoy our evening,” Mycroft said. He stepped to the side, pulling open a drawer in the wardrobe and taking out a small box. Greg’s heart skipped a beat until Mycroft opened it to reveal the cufflinks he’d mentioned earlier. They were burnished silver with an elaborate ‘A’ engraved on the oval faces.

“These belonged to my grandfather,” Mycroft told him, “the same Alexander for whom I am partly named.”

Greg swallowed hard as he allowed Mycroft to fix them for him. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“They are on loan,” Mycroft said with a smile.

A whisper of something swirled through his brain, but he ignored it.

_Old, and borrowed._

_And the suit, and the socks…_

Greg felt himself frown a little, but he didn’t question it. He assumed it would become clear later. Part of the whole mysterious thing. He smiled, leaning in to kiss Mycroft carefully, deliberately not touching the suit.

“Are we ready?” Greg asked. He watched Mycroft take a deep breath before nodding and threading their hands together.

As they reached the door, Mycroft hesitated, then turned to Greg.

“I love you very much,” Mycroft said. The words were unexpected enough for Greg to simply stand, blinking at him as he continued to speak. “And regardless of our…path this evening, you have made me happier than I ever thought possible over the last year. I will always be grateful to you.”

Greg nodded, his eyes searching Mycroft’s for answers to questions he didn’t yet want to ask. Why was Mycroft being so mysterious? And what the hell was that little speech about?

“I hope there’s some answers soon, Myke,” Greg said, his smile wobbly, fingers shaking as he pressed them to Mycroft’s cheek. “Cause that was beautiful, but….Jesus.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “Let us depart without delay.” He glanced at his watch. “We have three minutes.”

“Okay,” Greg said, allowing himself to be guided out of the room and into the lift. Three minutes? That was hardly enough time to get into the foyer, let alone anywhere in town. Assuming they were going somewhere in town, of course. Jesus, what could Mycroft have organised?

His mind was so engrossed with the question he barely noticed as the doors opened and they stepped into the foyer. The murmur of sound from the bar and restaurant whirled around Greg, though he could barely concentrate on walking in a straight line right now. Mycroft led him across the carpet and stopped at the closed ballroom doors. For some reason Greg’s brain registered several staff studiously busy at the reception desk. It was a quiet-ish spot, but a bit strange to wait here, Greg thought,

“Myke?” Greg asked as Mycroft stopped, looking down at their joined hands.

_Shit. This is…something. Whatever he’s been planning._

Mycroft looked up at him, nerves and fear in his eyes. Greg could see the request for help. With a smile, he placed his hand over Mycroft’s, looking at the tangle of fingers.

_I’ll love it._

_Because it’s us._

“Whatever it is, I’ll love it,” he murmured. “Because it’s us together.”

Mycroft nodded but didn’t speak.

“Mycroft?” Greg whispered, tightening his fingers. He looked up, disconcerted to see Mycroft looking intensely at him, calm control and terror both on his face.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, and the sound around them dropped away. Greg couldn’t hear anything anyway; his eyes were locked on Mycroft’s and all he could hear was Mycroft’s voice.

“Thank you for restraining your questions and tolerating my subterfuge. Rest assured it was for this purpose and this alone that I would ever deceive you to such an extent.” He drew a deep breath and his words came in a rush. “I adore you beyond compare and wish never to be parted from you. Would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?”

Greg felt his jaw drop, and it wasn’t until Mycroft’s gaze lowered that he even noticed the ring Mycroft was holding. He blinked for a second, not believing what he was seeing. With a startled intake of breath, he pulled his hand from Mycroft’s and reached into his pocket, pulling out the handkerchief. Carefully, he folded back the fabric, exposing a ring identical to that held by Mycroft.

Mycroft drew in a sharp breath. Greg glanced up at Mycroft, his own incredulity mirrored for a second before Mycroft made the connection.

“Anthea?” Mycroft murmured.

“Anthea,” Greg replied with a rush of understanding.

They were both looking at the rings, then up at each other, the smiles slowly growing on both faces now.

“Blue sapphires?” Greg asked.

“September birthstone,” Mycroft said. “I was born anew the moment we met,” he added quietly.

Greg’s heart heaved, the smile fading at the serious answer.

_Jesus. How could I argue with that?_

“Did she suggest an engraving?” Greg asked. He turned the ring so Mycroft could see the tiny letters scrolling around the inside.

“She did,” Mycroft replied. He spoke without looking. “_Gunpowder and Rose_.”

“Yeah,” Greg whispered. She’d clearly been in charge of procuring that for Mycroft – for both of them now, and they certainly drank it regularly enough, their smiles always a little more intimate as they remembered the first time they’d drunk it together. It was an in joke, of course, but it wasn’t funny at all right now. Greg felt half out of his body, as though this was happening to someone else. He’d pushed away his brain’s suggestion that this was going to happen, and now here it was.

_Is this me? Am I really allowed to be so happy?_

_Oh my god, we’re getting married._

“You haven’t answered my question,” Mycroft said.

The smile returned to Greg’s face, and he met Mycroft’s eyes. “Yes,” he said, unable to tease for even a moment. “Of course I will.”

His fingers were shaking, as were Mycroft’s; it took a second to get both rings to fit, and Greg reached for Mycroft after, pressing a kiss to his mouth to ground himself.

_Holy shit, holy shit…_

“Right now?” Mycroft asked, when both rings had slid home.

Greg blinked. “Is that why we’re here?” he asked. Jesus, he was still processing the last two minutes.

“It is,” Mycroft replied, reaching for the door handle.

He was still looking at Greg when the doors opened. Instead of the dark, intimate space they’d occupied last time they were here, the room was filled with light and people and noise.

The cheers rose as Mycroft raised Greg’s left hand, the ring flashing for all to see. Someone behind them was applauding too; Greg’s mind reconciled the strangely overstaffed reception desk with the sound. Of course, they must have known it was happening.

“Addie?” Greg gasped as he saw her at the front of the crowd, Lexi clapping and chewing on something bright and plastic in her mother’s arms. As his gaze swept around, he recognised many of the faces.

“It’s everyone,” Greg whispered, overwhelmed. “What did you…is this all you?”

He turned to Mycroft, knowing he probably looked ridiculous, mouth agape.

“It is,” Mycroft replied, looking properly relaxed for the first time since they’d arrived. “All the people most important to you are here. To witness our marriage, assuming you accepted me a moment ago.”

“And if I’d said no?” Greg asked. He could feel the crowd standing there, expectant, but he needed some answers before he started greeting people.

“A reunion,” Mycroft replied. “Only a few knew of the potential wedding.”

Greg nodded, swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat. “I was going to propose on this trip,” he whispered.

“Hence the ring,” Mycroft replied. “I suspect Anthea may have had a hand in certain aspects of this coincidence.”

_Coincidence…_

“Someone once told me something about coincidence,” Greg said with a grin.

“You believe the universe is acting through Anthea?” Mycroft asked. “I’ll have to discuss that with her when we return…”

“Maybe,” Greg replied. “Either way, it’s all worked out.”

“Indeed it has,” Mycroft replied, his eyes soft on Greg’s.

His body was still not quite his own; Greg felt his hand cup Mycroft’s face as they kissed, before the crowd finally moved forward towards them.

Smiling faces greeted them, and Greg anchored his hand in Mycroft’s, determined they should not be separated. Addie was the first one there, flinging her arms around his neck, and Greg promised a proper cuddle with Lexi later. Seeing Addie walking on her own was wonderful, and he locked eyes with Delilah for a brief moment, hoping she could see the gratitude he felt for her in that moment.

People kept coming up to him, the conversations swirling together as he tried to get his brain into gear enough to talk. At least he was still holding onto Mycroft. He wasn’t letting go for anything. How else would he know this was truly happening?

“Nice one boss,” Sally Donovan said, slapping him on the back.

“Hang on, if you’re here, who’s working?” Greg asked, blinking at her.

“You’re on holidays, you don’t need to know yet,” Sally said with a grin.

“Jesus, don’t tell me it’s Johnstone,” Greg said with a groan. “And how come you got to know about this?”

Sally snorted. “I have no idea what you mean,” she said. “Some gorgeous guy shows up an hour after you’ve left for holidays, tells me he works for Mr Holmes and next thing I know, I’ve got half an hour to pack before I’m flying out of the country.”

“Please tell me you at least asked for ID,” Greg said with a grin.

“Didn’t have to,” Sally said, “but he wouldn’t have had to work hard to convince me either way.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “Seriously.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Sally replied. “Even if I’m not exactly sure where we are.”

“Newfoundland!” someone supplied behind her, and a cheer rose again.

Greg greeted a bunch of familiar locals – Crystal, arm slung around an unfamiliar woman; Brenda and Matty, and their daughter, her name escaping Greg – before another face made him break into a new grin.

“David!” Greg exclaimed. “Off the clock today, I hope.”

“Yessir,” David said with a grin. “Escorted one of yours over here, and now I’m strictly on holiday myself.”

“Donovan?” Greg asked. “She mentioned you.”

“Great skin, gorgeous eyes, excellent sense of humour,” David said. “And since I’m off the clock…”

“Ah,” Greg said, wondering how long it might take David and Sally to get to know each other. “Well, she’s around somewhere.” He grinned at David. “Treat her well, mate, she’s a copper.”

He turned to look but David was gone, replaced beside Greg with another familiar face.

“Kevin!”

He pulled Greg into a one armed hug. “Told you you’d be back,” Kevin said with a grin.

“One day I’ll actually plan to come,” Greg said good-naturedly. “Can’t say it’s terrible, being back.”

“Of course it’s not,” Kevin said. “I’m here for a couple of months this time.”

“We’ll talk,” Greg promised. “Well, maybe not tonight…”

“I’ll be at the bar,” Kevin said with a grin. “Or Matty’ll know where to find me.”

Greg found himself turned, embraced by Mycroft who spoke into his ear over the increasing noise level.

“I believe the celebrant is ready,” Mycroft said. “Are you certain…”

“Yes,” Greg said emphatically, tightening his grip around Mycroft’s waist. “I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

The ceremony was a blur, except for Mycroft’s eyes, soft and locked on Greg’s the whole time. There were words, and cheering, and at some point they took their rings off only to replace them…but Greg was only interested in what Mycroft’s eyes were saying.

_I chose you. I chose you. I chose you._

A long time later, the noise had settled. Food was served and eaten, and more gunpowder and rose rum was poured than anybody probably needed. Sherlock had been convinced to come, and to play nice; Greg and John exchanged wry glances when Sherlock congratulated his brother through gritted teeth. Their friendship had picked up where it left off before John had been deployed, and Greg was fairly sure John and Sherlock were closer than most flatmates tended to be. That was a conversation for another time, though. Tonight, Greg had been congratulated more than ever in his life, and through it all, Mycroft’s hand in his was a constant.

_Perfect._

At some point David found them, leaning in over the music.

“I wanted to introduce you to my mother,” he said, indicating the older couple standing quietly behind him. “Mr. Holmes said it was alright to invite them.”

“Of course,” Greg said, smiling at the blonde woman. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Diane Marson,” David introduced her, “and Nick Marson, this is Greg…Lestrade?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said feeling his face flush. “We haven’t actually discussed names yet.”

_Greg Lestrade-Holmes. Or Holmes-Lestrade._

_Jesus, this night just keeps getting more bananas…_

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Diane said, her Texas drawl familiar enough to make Greg smile. “As long as you’re his and he’s yours it doesn’t matter what you call yourselves.”

“Agreed,” the tall man beside her murmured, his accent contrasting hers. “I understand you were stranded here last year?”

“Yes,” Greg replied. “David told us that’s how you met each other.”

The Englishman nodded, smiling fondly at his wife. Greg noticed their hands were joined as tightly as his and Mycroft’s were. He hoped they were still so tactile in twenty years.

“Newfoundland affects people,” Diane said, her eyes bright. “You’ll be back here, I promise you.”

“We will,” Greg started, but their conversation was interrupted.

“You two!” It was the Mayor, Claude; Greg had seen him earlier but they hadn’t had a chance to exchange more than a passing glance.

“Claude,” Greg greeted him with a grin. “What can we do for you?”

The jovial man greeted everyone warmly, before turning back to Greg.

“We’re going to have ourselves a little ceremony,” Claude said with a grin. “Bunch o’ come-from-aways here, it’s perfect!”

Greg grinned at him, and turned to Mycroft. “You think your brother’s up for the challenge?” he asked.

Mycroft smiled back. “Perhaps,” he replied. “At least we won’t have to take the chance this time.”

“And you won’t have to kiss the fish,” Greg said.

Mycroft shuddered. “No,” he replied. “As it turns out,” he said, pulling Greg close, “I’d much rather kiss the Englishman.”

_Christ, that’s corny._

But as Mycroft kissed him in the middle of their wedding crowd in the middle of Newfoundland, somehow Greg couldn’t bring himself to care.

THE END.


End file.
